“In the midst of winter... an invincible summer”

We are living through trying times. There seems to be a scary new virus that has managed to escape from one tiny district of one massive nation and gone on a world tour, leaving thousands dead and millions more panic stricken in its wake. Entire nations have come to a standstill, with social isolation, work from home and lockdown becoming buzzwords for the day. The most disorienting part of it all is the speed at which the entire scenario has unfolded. The virus was first identified in Wuhan in November 2019, but it arrived in India only in early March 2020, and became the all encompassing area of focus for the entire country barely in the last week or ten days. Right now though, it seems like all there is left in the world to talk about.

I do not want to talk about the virus, or the disease, or the death toll, or the lack of adequate healthcare resources should community transmission progress aggressively in this country. There is far too much of that out there already. I want to talk about the social and personal fallout of this entire scenario, a factor that seems to have gone largely unnoticed or at least unaddressed so far. The country – and the world, in large parts – has been plunged headlong, without warning, into an era of social isolation, bringing everyday life to a grinding halt for millions.

Over many days now, the vast majority of the conversations I have been having with friends and peers have revolved around the virus. It had started off casually, and there had been a fair bit of excitement at the prospect of being able to work from home. At that point, it had seemed like the perfect opportunity to laze and spend time with friends, a mini staycation of sorts. I myself had imagined that it would be fifteen days of reliving summer vacations, waking up at noon and eating ungodly amounts of dessert. Maybe this would be the time when I would finally be able to convince my partner to stay over for a couple of days without spending a majority of that time bent over his laptop, working on the latest assignments from work! The reality turned out to be vastly different, of course. The panic moved rapidly, and with more and more social institutions shutting shop and governments enforcing lockdowns, people went home to their families and hunkered down in quarantine for the foreseeable future.

This is where the trouble starts. It must be acknowledged that a situation of enforced isolation, particularly as a means to combat a contagion, is bound to create panic and mass hysteria. And this hysteria creates artificial crises that often supersede the real, existent dangers. Around the world, there has been a large scale shortage of basic groceries and staples, including ridiculous items such as toilet paper, because people have started hoarding essentials to prepare for shortages in the upcoming months, ironically precipitating the very thing that they most fear! This has, of course, left the old and the infirm, as well as the financially badly off, out in the cold. Similar patterns seem to be unfolding in India, despite repeated assurances from the government that essential services and products will continue to be produced and made available in markets. 

Panic buying is perhaps the most visible impact of the disruptions unfolding through the virus scare. There is another, much deeper malaise that is bound to wreak its own variety of malignant havoc. I do not think that people appreciate how devastating isolation can be, particularly when it is coupled by the prospect of an indefinite future. Dark thoughts threaten to overshadow the human mind, and apathy sets in. The current scenario is rife for the worst sort of emotional and psychological disruptions in people. Many are isolated alone, in cities far away from home, and this causes increased levels of anxiety for the family’s well-being. A lot of others have been forced to return to family homes that are abusive at worst, and distant and uncaring at best. Some of us have the privilege of being able to continue with our work remotely, but for others, this is an enforced holiday that they had never wanted in the first place. Not knowing with any kind of certainty when life will be able to return to some degree of normalcy makes the situation many times worse.

The days seem interminably long. It has been less than a week since I started working from home, and a little less than ten days since I last saw my friends. Yet time has slowed down to a painful crawl, and every minute that drags by is laced with some thought – or conversation – about the virus and the upheaval it has caused. Social media has shown once again what a phenomenal pain in the neck it can be during times of crisis. Every Whatsapp group conversation is filled with incessant videos, articles, circulars, notices and updates about the virus’s latest victims. The tone ranges from somber to hysterical, adding fuel to an already steadily heightening and pervasive fear psychosis. It is becoming increasingly more difficult to log on to any site or platform without your senses being assaulted by factoids about the disease. And the worst part? The focus is entirely on the fatalities, the gruesome nature of those who are seriously ill, and the ostensibly indefinite duration that this outbreak and quarantining will continue for. If one were to take some time out to research, one would also come across enough encouraging articles – this one is a good example – about people recovering from the disease, and about possibilities of the outbreak getting controlled and life going back to normal at a reasonably early date. But of course, these stories are not highlighted, because where is the sensationalism in that?

One good thing has come of this entire series of unfortunate events, though. More and more, people are reaching out to friends and family that they had fallen out of touch with, and really talking to the ones who have been around. Over the last week or so, I have been making full utilisation of Whatsapp’s video calling facility to talk to friends from all over the country. I also feel closer to my partner, keeping more closely in touch with each other than we’ve ever done before. Crises of these kinds tend to bring out life’s priorities with a lot of clarity, and I for one am glad to have realised that there are so many people that I care about. This is also the time to slow down and reflect. Far too much, we have become dependent on external sources of joy and entertainment. Gatherings with friends are dependent on the spirits on offer, romantic relationships are founded on the amount of money spent on dates and dinners. The joy and depth of conversations are lost in the midst of loud party music and psychedelic lights. Now, maybe, is when we go back to communicating with people because we like to talk to them, to know their minds, rather than because we only care about dressing up and going out together! Even more significantly, now is the time to think about non-personal hobbies and occupations. This is the time for the introvert to come into her own, and the reader, the thinker, the artist to flourish. These identities do not have to be the exclusive reserve of a tiny handful. Most people find some creative instincts if only they dig deep enough, and what better time to do so than now?

So let the news channels and the disease updates be, for a while. Pick up the phone and call someone. Or better still, pick up your pencil and practice doodling. Read about mindfulness, and then try incorporating it in your life daily. Go for a walk if your town still allows it, or sit out on the terrace, and let the sun fall on your face.  Dance, for no other reason than you can. Give your maid paid leave and do some household chores while listening to podcasts. And the next time you get to hug your friends or kiss your lover goodnight, remember that human proximity is a privilege, and be grateful. Human beings have an extraordinary well of resilience in them, and time and again the world gives us the occasion to delve into that “invincible summer” inside ourselves, pull ourselves back on our feet and carry forward with life. Now is such a time, and it would be a sorry waste to allow oneself to fall prey to the gloom of uncertainty and desperation. Life derives both beauty and meaning from some of its toughest phases. I sincerely hope, for myself and everyone I love, that we are able to look back on this phase years down the line, and pat ourselves and each other on our backs for how we conducted ourselves during this time.

Of winter, love, and other scents of beauty

A few weeks ago, I was stretching out in my living room after a long day of work when I got a sudden whiff of something familiar yet far away. The faint, crisp scent reminded me of the sweetness of fallen leaves pressed beneath a hundred footsteps, with just a hint of smoky wood-fire. It took me a few seconds, but I soon knew what it was: the first hint of winter was in the air. I smelt it before my skin felt the first goosebumps of chilly weather. The scent had me awash in a wave of pure joy and contentment. Winter was on its way.

More and more, I am convinced that I was a member of the canine species in my previous lifetime. My olfactory sense is arguably my keenest, and occupies the lion’s share of all my sensory experiences, shaping and dictating my choices and actions fairly often. Places, for example, have very distinct scents of their own, and my instinctive reaction to the scent of a city or town determines my overall impression of the place. The smell of mountains, regardless of the specific area, always fills me with a sense of peace. Mountains smell of pinewood forests and clean, sweet air. They smell of water trickling  down the slatey mountain walls. Quite often, they are replete with the  damp, hazy fragrance of fog , and walking through a particularly thick cover, one can almost taste the mustiness that accompanies the scent. It can be a revolting odour to some, but I associate the smell of fog with peace and leisure. The smell of mountains is so deeply entrenched in my memory that the mere thought of it brings the fragrance alive to my nose, bringing with it a heart-wrenching desire to drop everything and start travelling, stopping only when I am in the heart of Devbhoomi. 

Memories have un uncanny way of hovering right underneath the surface, ready to come alive at a moment’s notice. Years can pass by without an incident or an individual ever coming to one’s mind and yet all it really takes is the mere hint of the smell of the past for all the walls to come crashing down in glib reminder of the throbbing urgency of the past that never quite resolved itself. Then again, sometimes the memories are bittersweet, making one heave a melancholy sigh and breathe in deeply in an attempt to travel back to days – and people – from a long time ago.

In my mind, much of my past is arranged in boxes with their own assigned fragrances. One of the fondest memories from my childhood is of rainy afternoons in the family room, with the scent of petrichor wafting in through the window after the first showers of the season. I would sit with my parents around our massive bed, all of us engrossed into our own respective books, stopping every now and then to breathe in the earth’s luscious odour. Even today, few things give me more contentment than reading quietly in bed with a loved one. Petrichor comes alive for me out of season, and is all the better for it.

I have a mercurial temperament which often causes me intense emotional turmoil and suffering. Sometimes, one of the only things that can help me feel centred after a particularly rough day is soothing scents, usually of the very Bengali dhuno, or the somewhat more easily available lemongrass. These scents remind me of home, of love, and of belonging. Then there is the scent of pages from books, both old and new, each holding its own special type of allure. If amour had a scent, it would be the scent of ink on paper. Or perhaps it would be the scent of dew-drenched grass. A tough choice to make.

But really, as with most other times in life, it is the scent of people you love that really keep you going when the going gets tough. The fragrance of security when ensconced in a parent’s arms, the scent of pure adoration as the family dog nuzzles you, the scent of adventure that friends bring with themselves as they drop by… and, of course, the cozy smell of peace and belonging as you breathe deeply into your lover’s soft skin as sleep takes you over, and then again the first thing as your day begins… Life is beautiful if only one learns to appreciate the really important things, and smells.

Adulting

I wrote this essay while travelling home from Delhi for the weekend last night. It is a reflective piece, and captures some of the recent capriciousness of my mind. But writing it helped make me feel more centered. Maybe writing is indeed my meditation. 

What does it feel like to be a grown up? And at what point does one know that one has reached quite the right age to be deemed a fully capable, functioning adult? Is it a complete break from one’s childhood and adolescence? Does it arrive all at once, like a cloudburst? Or is it an innocuous process that keeps coming at you unobtrusively, growing inch by subtle inch, until you wake up one morning and you know that childhood is over? These are some of the thoughts that have been gnawing at my mind for many, many months now. And yet, I have no answers.

According to social and legal norms, I am an adult now. I have been so for a few years. I am nearing twenty three, and it is dawning on me increasingly what a strange and curious time of life the early twenties are. To borrow from witty Instagram posts, I have contemporaries who are married and in the family way, and then there are others who have to plead with their parents for permission to meet with friends. There is every other kind in between, from globetrotting solo backpackers to couples living in together, from ardent corporate kids to dedicated artists and social workers, there are the slackers and the workaholics, the party animals and the couch potatoes. And then there is me.

I finished the Young India Fellowship in June, and went back home to West Bengal for a month to relax. It was the first proper vacation I had ever had: the previous ones had always been term breaks and annual school vacations, with some examination or course preparation always lurking in the back of my mind. But this time, I had really reached an extended period of separation from my academic pursuits. This time, I was taking an ‘off’ period before embarking into a working life. I had made up my mind even before joining the Fellowship that I would work for at least a couple of years after the Fellowship ended before continuing with full time academic engagements. Accordingly, I started applying actively to job opportunities on and off campus since early into the Fellowship.  It was a strenuous and emotionally exhausting process, as anyone who has ever hunted for jobs would know only too well, but I had the privilege of choice between several engaging offers by the end of the year. Since I had also planned ahead for the vacation in July I informed every organisation of my availability from August. Meanwhile, I took the time in July to weigh between a couple of offers and finally decided upon an associate researcher’s position at Katha India’s Child Poverty Action Research (CPAR) Lab in New Delhi. I have been in love with this city for years now, and since Calcutta with its abysmal job opportunities beyond some tech companies could not be a meaningful option, Delhi was the obvious choice. Zeroing in on a job brought much needed clarity and contentment, and my mind was free at last to breathe easy and enjoy the leisure days. And enjoy I did, in my own unique way, consisting mostly of sleeping and eating and indulging in long awaited adda with my parents. And of course, there was lots of dreaming and fantasizing about the future.

The month passed all too soon, and on 31^st July, I was back in Delhi. It is always with a wistful twinge of the heart that one leaves home behind, but I had the not-too-common privilege of being genuinely glad to be coming back to this city. It makes life so much easier if one can start a new life with more glad anticipation than mere misgivings. That first week back in town was a whirlwind time for me. I had already booked a room in a shared apartment in Chittaranjan Park – the mini Calcutta of Delhi – before leaving in June, and I meant to finish the work of moving in to my new home as far as possible in the few free days I had before work began on the 5^th. I did so, with unending help from my gem of friends Alisha and Asmita, and of course Shilpi Di. The boxes and trolleys seemed unending, and by the time I was done getting everything into place, it was already Monday, and time to start my professional life at Katha.

There were two other people joining the CPAR team along with me – Kartikeya Jain and Pratyush Dwivedi. They were classmates and friends from their time in Ambedkar University for their Masters, and through a lucky coincidence, had both been selected to join CPAR in research positions. I went to office on the first day with a good amount of apprehension, my socially uptight, reclusive tendencies threatening to rear their ugly heads at any hint of discomfort. But these fears were laid to rest pretty quickly, and a few hours into the day we had already slid into a comfortable sense of camaraderie, relying on each other for help in keeping up with the information and instructions being bombarded at us. Shilpi Di was my boss now, of course, and Aparna the second-in-command of the team, and as the weeks went on, we continued to shave off rough edges, so that now, one month down the line, we make a group of perfect weirdos steering possibly the most eclectically productive team in the organisation, with Chikoo the old mutt our constant mascot!

 But this post is not really about starting a new job or getting a new place, though both of these form very important elements of how my life and thoughts have been shaping up lately. For both of these are integral to my quest of finding my own place in this world as an independent grown up. And so we are back to the question with which I started out. When does one know, really?

Much seem to have changed over the last two months, and yet, surprisingly little feels different. I am a salaried employee of a reputed organisation, with responsibilities and expectations toward my workplace. I have to pay the rent, the electricity and the maid, and I shop for groceries and cook my meals more extensively than I have ever done before. I am referred to as ‘ma’am’ much more frequently than I was used to. I have recently become the local guardian to a friend’s brother. I am seriously considering getting a dog in the not too distant future. I have savings and insurance plans in place, thanks to Baba, and I have short and long-term career decisions hanging in the offing.

However, I still have a tough time getting out of bed each morning, spending more time than I would like to admit bargaining with myself for an extra five minutes of snooze time. I have quickly established myself as the slightly clownish baby of the team at work, and play the happy combination of roles as butt-of-all-jokes and receiver of most pampering. I struggle while making healthy eating choices, giving in far too often to the temptation of cakes and ice creams. I get happy buzzed on wine and beer and romp around in my room late at night in my tattered, pale pink pajamas, singing mushy romantic songs. And I am still deathly scared of cockroaches, and call up my parents several times every day to chat and complain and wail about life.

I am the same person that I was two months ago. I enjoy the same hobbies and curl up in bed in the same peculiar poses. I have clearly not got over my college sense of humour, often leading to vague awkwardness at work. But somewhere, there is a faint hint of someone a little more somber, a little more restrained. I have taken to bringing work home at times, so as not to feel guilty about not earning my keep. My interests and expectations concerning love and romance have shifted significantly toward something a little more level headed, a little less tempestuous than what I have been used to these past several years. I am looking for a stable, peaceful individual rather than a fellow wild child. I am ready to put in time and effort into something meaningful and potentially long term, and am willing to walk away from half hearted attempts at ‘time pass’. And lately, I have been thinking deep and long about the meaning of life, the reason for my existence in this transitory world.

Do these changes make me more ‘grown up’? I really do not know. And, quite frankly, I do not care overmuch about it. I do not fear growing older; in fact, it has been a standing joke with my friends at Ashoka that I am the ‘mommy’ of the pack, always watching over them like a mother hen. I have never been the usual kind of youngster anyway, with very little interest in parties and shopping and living the ‘high life’. I do not really feel like a different person; maybe just a tad bit less higgledy-piggledy! I am writing this essay while on a flight back home to Calcutta after a long and tiring couple of weeks at work, not for a leisurely weekend but because of some medical troubles in the extended family. I am going home to stand by my mother in a time of need, and that, I suppose, is grown up enough. I can forgive myself for occasional slips into childish behaviour. So long as I can continue to tread this balance, I will be doing well enough, I think!

Reflections on money and the moneyed

When I was a little girl, my parents never gave me an allowance, or ‘pocket-money’ as it is called here. Instead, they asked me to lend a hand with household chores and gave me ‘payments’ for whatever work I did. Now I know a certain line of thinking about parenting would condemn this as a bad idea since children should learn to do household work as a matter of course and not as something for which they are rewarded; I do not want to go into that debate here, because while an interesting thought, it is a completely different issue from the one I now have in mind. My parents’ method successfully taught me the joys and responsibilities of owning money that is hard earned. In other ways too I was exposed to the family finances from a young age, and as such came to handle significant sums of money with confidence and care far earlier than most of my contemporaries; indeed some still probably don’t, particularly among the girls, and we are now in our twenties.

I never put a lot of thought into my relationship with money, though. I come from a well-off middle-class family, which puts me into the top 1% of India’s population. By God’s grace and Baba’s hard work I have never had to know financial hardship, and my only exposure to poverty has been through literature and cinema, and the fact that I live in a country with an abysmal and ever-growing gap between the haves and the have nots. In my family, the norm has always been to put money firmly in the role of an instrument providing safety, comfort and convenience, along with the ability to indulge in charity and the occasional luxury, the former being viewed as an integral duty by virtue of being human, the latter highlighting rare and special occasions such as vacations, the savouring of fine liquor or festive shopping sprees. Our family has always believed strongly in the value of living simply if not frugally with little attention to conspicuous consumption. I spent the first sixteen years of my life in a small town without ever using a ‘branded’ lifestyle product. Cell phones came late in our lives, smartphones later still. Eating out was done maybe once in six months, maybe less. The family car spent far more time in the garage than it did ferrying any of us about. And our lives were none the worse for any of this. I never felt any sense of loss or inadequacy from the absence of any material objects and experiences that most families in our social class see as integral parts of their lives, particularly in the big cities.

When I moved to Calcutta for my higher secondary education, I joined a somewhat ‘elite’ institution where a large number of the students belonged to one of the richest business communities in India. Soon, I got used to seeing luxury cars outside the school gate, and a certain snobbish stance in classrooms that translated into the financial and psychological equivalent of ‘tu janta nehi mera baap kaun hai’ (don’t you know who my father is?!), though the latter was never directed at me personally given that I was academically far ahead of most of them and somewhat intimidating in my physical appearance and demeanour! This crowd was conspicuously absent during my years at Jadavpur University, where the student body’s so-called Marxist stance in life made way for the reverse snobbery of turning up to class looking like homeless madmen who had just woken up from a roadside ditch the done thing. Since I moved to Delhi though, the high school variety of people have skyrocketed in my vicinity, particularly in my university, which attracts that very crowd through its social as well as financial model. I now reside and study in an atmosphere where branded merchandise rule the day, as do parties and ‘fun’ that involve all sorts of lavish lifestyle choices. And recently, from my time working at the India Art Fair in Delhi, I have first-hand stories about the uber-rich who throw money at artwork the way kids do in candy stores, and I am talking about seven-figure sums here.

I have had the time to muse long and hard about the issue of money and how it affects human lives. And at this point, I feel sufficiently confident of having seen the entire spectrum of financial capacities of people. And I must admit, I have come to despise money and the moneyed more than ever before. I also pity them greatly, and I will presently explain why.

My first and possibly greatest grievance against the moneyed class is how money and civility seem to be inversely proportional. This, I suspect, is particularly true about the rich in India. We as a nation do not place much value on politeness and courtesy to begin with, and the few of us who do practice these values to some extent often do so more from the fear of being called out for misbehaviour than from an innate sense of civility. As money brings a certain privilege and social protection with it, that fear melts away, exposing the natural rudeness and uncouth behaviour of the person. It is also a way for them to exercise their power over the lowly plebeians; after all, how many will raise a voice of protestation against someone who earns a hundred or even a thousand times as herself? This brings me to the inflated sense of self-importance that these people have about their lives and work. As part of my work for the Art Fair, my group had to collaborate with some fashion designers, upcoming names in the Indian fashion industry. One of them was an uncivilized lout who liked to strut about ordering people with a sense of importance that was frankly ludicrous for someone who is, in essence, a glorified master tailor. I am happy to say I had the chance to take the individual down a peg or two and made good use of it. Afterwards, as we trundled around the Art Fair thoroughly uncomfortable in the rather mediocre looking but cut-throat priced designer-wear, we were congratulated by several of the collectors (I have been using a rather less civilized term invoking the canine family to refer to them in private conversations, as it seemed to reflect their attitudes more aptly, but I will desist here for the sake of propriety) for our ‘luck’ at getting to wear them, and advised us to ‘enjoy’ it while we could. I could not decide whether to be more astonished by or full of pity at their idea of what brings joy in life.

That, I suppose, is my second biggest complaint against money, as well as the source of my contemptuous pity for those who have too much of it. The more one devotes oneself to the pursuit of money as the sole aim of one’s life, the more disconnected one seems to become from real love and joy and peace. Lives are given meaning through the possessions one owns, and the prices one pays for it. The art becomes insignificant unless the artist is expensive enough, the vacation becomes pointless unless it is where all the other millionaires also go and spend their money. The worst affected, of course, are not those who are the real earners of the millions, but those who are his family – usually the wife and children. The sense of entitlement they bring with them is mind-boggling, as is the stupidity that is often an unfortunate additive. But I suppose you do need the thick skin (and head) if you have to survive the plastic lives they do, with their kitty parties and leather bags and gossips about the latest ‘in’ things.

I feel saddest, though, for the middle class, the class that aspires more than anything to be like their uber-wealthy counterparts. And what they cannot emulate in earnings, they try to make up for with the spendings. We have more and more families that are aiming for designer trousseau and destination weddings but do not have adequate medical insurance or retirement funds. And, perhaps worst still, far too many people are giving into the lure of commodity fetishism and ‘living it up’ at the price not only of their futures but of their present mental and emotional growth.

Which brings me to the idea of charity. Increasingly I am coming to the conclusion that human beings are not inherently good and kind and keen to help others. They are often quite the opposite, in fact, and have to be coerced by social institutions into putting up a veneer of civility and self-restraint. Since no similar institutional coercive measure exists in the case of charity, it is a small surprise that few people, particularly among the rich, feel the need to do much about human beings subjected to poverty. A former friend from Jadavpur who belonged to one of the traditionally rich north Calcutta families and had no qualms while talking about his collection of pens worth lakhs routinely fought with poor rickshaw pullers over a few rupees and thought I was a gullible fool and a bit of a squanderer for giving money to the various aid seekers, usually the old and infirm, who regularly came to our campus for help. I am not denying that there are many rich individuals who give away huge amounts of their money for charity – I hear J. K. Rowling lost her billionaire status because she donated so much of her wealth. In India, however, it is too little done by too few. In my personal experience, it is often those who have to skip outings with friends because they have to buy groceries that make charity a regular habit. One of my history professors at Ashoka, while discussing communism in class, told us about how he heard people at his gym defending the Ambanis spending obscenely at the daughter’s wedding by arguing they had the right to do whatever they wanted with their ‘hard-earned money’ while criticizing the idea of loan waivers to farmers as it would make them lazy and encourage the bad habit of not paying back on future loans.  What does that say about the rich, and about those who aspire to be so?

I know many will consider this essay a classic piece of sour grapes, but I have myself considered this possibility and rejected it with a laugh long ago. As I started out by saying, I am acutely aware of my privilege of belonging to a comfortably-off family. Having said that, I have not been able to decipher how several more zeroes to the sum in the bank account would have made my life significantly more fruitful. Greater scope for charity would have been one, and it would have been nice, as Rowling had once said, never to have to worry about paying bills in one’s life, but apart from that? What could I have been able to buy that would give me greater long term life satisfaction? The consumer habits practised by the moneyed, I have noticed, is based almost entirely on the question of bragging rights. In my family though, the practice of discussing our incomes with outsiders or asking after another’s has always been seen as a sign of ultimate bad manners and unrefined culture, and the same goes for talking about the prices of our possessions. Growing up with such cultural inclinations, how on earth will buying a bag from Louis Vuitton or a watch from Gucci give me greater joy than my present ones from Dressberry and Titan respectively?

I will close with a reminder, to myself as much as to my readers, about what I said earlier about making money a mere instrument and not the master of one’s life. It is frighteningly easy to lose conviction if one is exposed to a frivolously wasteful environment for too long. Far too many of my friends in Delhi have Apple phones and laptops, and my open ridiculing of Apple users has, as a result, become more guarded. It is only a matter of time, I’m afraid, before a sneaking desire ‘invest’ in a designer accessory may take root in my heart. I hope I will remember to revisit my own writing then, to remind myself where that particular path leads to.

Goodreads Review: Twilight Falls on Liberalism

Twilight Falls on Liberalism by Rudrangshu Mukherjee
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I have the privilege of studying at the university where Professor Mukherjee is the Chancellor and Professor of History. I have attended some of his classes and been impressed by his command of the subject and style of delivery, and wanted to know how far his expertise was translated on to his writing. This was a major reason for my picking up this book, as also was my interest in the subject, and I must say that it was a worthy read.

Professor Mukherjee starts the book - closer to a long essay at 133 pages of a pocketbook - with introducing the current socio-political atmosphere around the world and the manner in which the ideology of liberalism is under attack from various fundamentalist and totalitarian forces. Then, true to his historian's method, he goes back to study the conception and growth of the idea of liberalism from its 18th century Enlightenment roots and its changing scope over the ages in keeping with contemporary world economy and polity. He touches upon the fundamental contradictions within the ideology and the paradox of its birth from the same roots that gave rise to totalitarian tendencies. He moves forward to discuss some of the critiques of liberalism and continues the chronological study of 20th-century eclipsing of the ideology through the rise of dictatorships across Europe. He traces the cyclical pattern of rising and diminishing popularity of the ideology through the century before closing with the 21st century socio-political attitude towards liberal ideals as displayed by the three major world events of the last several years - the election of Donald Trump in the US, Brexit, and the rise of right-wing governance in India with the coming of Narendra Modi as the Prime Minister.

The major drawback in the book is the lack of analysis or at least historically moulded informed guesses as to the reasons behind the rising tide of totalitarian tendencies across the world. While Professor Mukherjee has touched briefly upon the economic meltdown of 2008 and the growing threat of Islamist fundamentalism as possible reasons for the decline of liberal beliefs, these interconnections could have been explored at greater length, providing a more nuanced understanding of contemporary world politics for the reader. This would have been particularly helpful for the lay reader since Professor Mukherjee's ability to explain complex philosophical and political ideas in lucid language makes this book intellectually available to a wide range of readers. That apart, this is a most interesting book by way of introduction to the political ideology of liberalism and is sure to get the reader enthused about learning more on the subject. 

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Ruminations

Yesterday was the first official day of my summer vacation. I say first ‘official’ day because we have been on vacation since end of April for all practical purposes. Classes started dwindling since mid April and eventually got dissolved by early May, and after a brief ‘study leave’ our end semester examinations started on the 17th of May. I use the important sounding name – end semester examination – out of habit and to lend some gravitas to the situation. In reality, there were examinations on four days. Yes, just four days, and yet it had to be spread out across nearly three weeks. I have to give this to the private schools across the country, for all their endless problems and shortcomings they do usually manage to get over with examinations within a week or two, and that with nearly a dozen subjects on average. What does this say about our ‘elite’ public universities, and our national psyche in the matter in general? If there was ever a social decision to function according to the very antithesis of the ideal of “do it now”, it is the principle that guides our nation.

Examination days leave me feeling unsettled. I don’t think this has much to do with my level of preparedness. Even when I know that I have worked hard throughout the year and only unforeseen disasters could possibly make me fare badly in the paper, I cannot help feeling jittery and restless. I have a definite point of saturation beyond which I cannot revise, the words bounce off my head without making sense to me any longer. And yet I cannot concentrate on anything else either. Examinations seem to put my life on hold; they make me feel like I am in purgatory. If I ever have to spend any period of my life solely focused on preparing for any examination, I wonder whether I will be able to do it. I seriously fear that I will crack under the strain of preparations and revisions long before the actual tests come up.

As I walked out of the examination hall on the 5th of June, I realized with a jolt that I had officially finished the second year of my undergraduate course. Come July I will be starting on my final year here, the senior year in the Indian scheme of things. I don’t think the thought has sunk in quite properly yet; it seems like yesterday that I was walking in as the confused fresher who lost her way around the campus at least thrice a week. I look back and I realize the true import of the saying “the days are long but the years are short”. All those early classes with the attractive old professor, those initial days of bonding with seniors, that certain idealistic spark that formed our political inclinations and made us feel good about ourselves, the first tastes of the real world and the quick realization that followed about how inept our generation is at ‘adulting’ – the memories that threaten to flood my mind are bittersweet and each an engaging story by itself. The past two years have helped me grow and embark on a journey of self discovery, and I know I have only just started. I have a lifetime of exploration ahead of me, and that is one exhilarating thought.

Jadavpur has been home to me in ways I could not have thought possible. It has given me what I have always craved for – space. In Jadavpur I can be me, I can function within my own tastes and preferences without worrying about any external restrictions. I can be mad or composed, well turned out or bedraggled, a bookworm or a social butterfly, or an alarming mix of them all, and still find a cozy nook for myself there. I may or may not find like minded friends, but chances are I will not be actively shunned or made to conform to the tastes of anyone else. In a world that demands standards and norms and regularity, a short sojourn in this haven of disorderly but generally well-meaning people may well turn out to be soothing memory of a lifetime. I have met so many types of people here, strange and outlandish, starry eyed and optimistic, frivolous and forlorn, often quite eccentric. Some of them I have become close to, others I have only briefly come in touch with. A few I hope will continue to be a part of my life long after we have crossed the boundaries of college and gone on our very different paths. These two years have been wonderful, and I hope to have a terrific final year here, but now I am ready to leave. I can sense a certain loosening of ties, a certain longing for newer pastures, an urge to go out and explore. Just as I know that after the end of school, getting admitted to Jadavpur University had been the best option for me, I also know that I need to move on from here for the next step.

I have spent a lot of time lately thinking about what I want to do next, after completing my graduation. I do not want to carry on with History for my Masters, not because my love for the subject has dwindled, not at all, but because I have almost made up my mind not to pursue a career in the academia. I cannot see myself spending years writing theses and teaching reluctant college goers. I did not take up English for graduation, much to the astonishment of many of my peers, because I felt that reading literature as a part of my coursework will kill my love for it. Lately, I have begun to feel the same way about History as well. There is a sense of restriction that I suffer from; in spite of studying the subject I love I am often not able to study according to my own interests. My coursework needs me to focus on economic theories about modes of production when what I really want to read about is the history of modern Israel. I do feel set curricula suffocate academic curiosity; at least they do to me. I have this little personal joke where I think of my love for history or literature or any other academic subject to be like a man’s love for his mistress, which is based on sheer attraction and not social norms and legal expectations, and burns deep for that very reason. Once I am beyond the requirement of coursework, I feel I will be able to continue reading history as a passion for the rest of my life. In the meantime, I am on the lookout for anything interesting and unusual, anything that challenges my intellect and pushes me to learn. I am ready to go into the professional world and try my luck in different fields until I find something that suits my abilities and temperament.

This year has been a difficult one so far, and I can sense that there are more troubles lying in wait in the coming months. But there have also been many happy days and peaceful days. As time passes I get more and more convinced that life is nothing if not a mixed bag. It is on every individual to make the most of what they have, without worrying too much about all that they don’t. Tragedies will have to be faced, sadness will have to be dealt with, but it really does no good dwelling too much on them. Worrying just makes you suffer twice. And so I have decided to take each day at a time and make a conscious effort to enjoy myself as best as my situation allows. It was with that spirit that I began my vacation, taking myself out to a movie after the examination ended – the last movie of the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise is a fun watch by the way, a fitting end to a successful series – and enrolling on an interesting online course about the ancient Egyptian civilization. I am looking forward to a fulfilling month, a refreshing break before starting out on the final leg of college life. 

Post-festivity venting

I am in a very irritable mood. I have been this way all through the evening. It is the first of November, but the temperatures seem to have no intention of coming down. Winter feels like a distant dream here in Kolkata, and instead of ordering boots and dreaming about hot cups of cocoa, I am still in my summer shorts and tees. But this is only an incidental cause for my present state of mind. What is really making me prickly is the seemingly never-ending season of festivities in this part of the world.

I belong to the tiny section of the population that cannot wait for the celebrations to end and life to go back to its routine of working days and weekends. The entire month of October has been one long period of limbo when it came to any sort of work getting done, be it in college or outside of it. People are ‘happy’; they are ‘taking a break’. A break from what, can someone tell me? As it is we Bengalis have a remarkable reputation for being lazy and unwilling to work. Anything that can be done in a week (or a month or more) will never, not even by mistake, be completed in any less time. And then there is the annual, month-long, socially acceptable excuse for dropping all work and wasting as much time and money as humanly possible.

Durga Puja did not annoy me too much. In fact I enjoyed shopping for clothes, going out with friends, going pandal hopping in Kolkata and Durgapur, the usual during festivals. But for some reason, the Diwali long weekend has driven me to tears of anger and frustration. It all started since last Friday, which was bhoot choturdorshi. I did not go to Durgapur for Diwali this year because I had to study and finish assignments and papers and I never seem to do any productive work at all when I’m back home with Dad. So on Friday I went out to Lake market to buy some abir for the mandatory Diwali rangoli (for the uninitiated, abir is coloured powder used to make designs on the ground – rangoli­ – during Diwali, and smear on each other during Holi). Lake Market is a busy shopping arcade on all days, but on Friday it was a sea of humanity. People old and young were crawling all over the area. Every second person seemed to have come in private cars, which led to traffic snags and parking lot shouting matches. Trying to navigate one’s way through cars and stalls and beggar children and dogs and cows was nightmarish. I did get the things I was looking for, and came away as quickly as I could. But the experience left me drained of energy and good humour. I spent the rest of the evening snapping at family and friends.

Kali pujo and Diwali (Saturday and Sunday respectively) would have gone fine enough, except that all around me people decided that the best way to enjoy themselves was to burst a whole lot of kali potkas and chocolate bombs and dodomas. Diwali is supposed to be the festival of lights, not sounds! It is deemed to signify the triumph of good over evil, light of darkness, hope over despair, not cacophony over silence! So many aspects of the celebration are beautiful – cleaning and decorating the house with fairy lights and oil lamps, drawing of the rangoli, making of mouthwatering sweets like laddoos and halwas, even the firework displays. I have nothing against real fireworks – fuljhuris and rongmashals, chorkis and tubris, various kinds of rockets that form coloured stars and parachutes and designs up in the sky. All of these are pretty to look at, reason enough to be used during Diwali. But what, pray, do you get from the bursting of bombs? Nothing but noise. It is beyond me why people enjoy the ear splitting explosions emanating from these pointless crackers. Why would you want to be reminded of battlefield bangs and booms for entertainment?

Diwali is one big reminder of how little Indians care about public inconvenience. The tyranny of majoritarianism becomes an ugly reality. So what if the elderly and the animals (and a few oddballs like yours truly) find the din physically painful and palpitation-inducing? The majority wants to have fun, the rest can go to hell. Then there is the added nuisance of songs blaring out from the speakers, volume turned up to the maximum. In fact, it is the middle of the night now, and still the scoundrels in my neighbourhood show no sign of turning the volume down. Just because they like to get drunk and dance like zombies to Bhojpuri songs, I have to listen to them too. Democracy and egalitarianism are nice concepts to think about and support; but right now if I could lay my hands on a gun I am pretty sure I would have caused a bloodbath here.

I just went over this post from four years ago. So much has changed in these four years, and yet so little. That Diwali was a happy one. The rangoli was beautiful. This year, I did make one, but it was uninspired and asymmetrical, an apt reflection of my state of mind.

I can sense that I am rambling; this sort of writing is more suited for the private journal I keep than the blog. But I had to vent out my anger in public. I feel much calmer now, and though the idiots here are still at it with their speakers and their crackers, I think I will be able to turn in for the night without shouting out my entire stock of expletives at them. Also, I had not written for such a long time. It feels good to be back at my writing. Maybe, just maybe it will not be months before my next post here. 

Fear of Freedom

What is freedom? Does freedom mean the same thing for everybody? Is freedom necessarily a good thing? Is freedom an end by itself or just a means to a bigger goal? These are some questions that find answers and explanations in Erich Fromm’s Escape from Freedom, or The Fear of Freedom as it is known outside North America. First published by the Berlin born psychoanalyst in the United States in 1941, it was written at the height of the Second World War, when the ideas of freedom and democracy were in imminent danger at the swift rise of the doctrines of Fascism and Nazism in Europe. The book is an attempt at explaining the psychological causes that, along with socio-economic and political causes, led to the rise of Nazism in Germany. However the thesis laid out in the book is a study in human psychology that transcends any specific time frame or regional boundary and remains as true in the 21^st century as it was then, maybe even more so. As a complete beginner in human psychology as an academic discipline, I have neither the knowledge nor the intellectual capability to ‘review’ such a scholarly book. However, I shall talk about the various things that I learnt from this book, and the many thoughts that came to me while reading it.

Fromm begins his treatise with the very question that I started this essay with – what is freedom? Generally, one thinks of freedom as a situation of independence from an external, coercive force. However, Fromm does not stop at this explanation; according to him there are in fact two parts to the concept of freedom – ‘freedom from’ or negative freedom and ‘freedom to’ or positive freedom. Fromm maintains that ‘freedom from’ by itself cannot be an end, as gaining negative freedom from oppression without actively striving towards positive freedom that would involve active utilisation of the emancipated state from the earlier oppression leads to unfortunate results for the human psyche. Comparing this state with the natural progression of a child into an adult human being, he says that just as the natural bonds that a child has in its infancy and childhood with its parents are eventually shed as the child develops into maturity, leading to an intense sense of loss and vulnerability from the sudden absence of the sense of security that these bonds offer, so is the effect that ‘freedom from’ by itself has on human beings. The structure and consistency offered by oppressive authority in human lives – an authority that the people have become used to over generations as usually is the case with all social institutions – is lost once the people are emancipated from this external authority, leading to fear and hopelessness and lack of direction, rather than the joy and celebration that seem to be the more logical reaction to emancipation.

Fromm begins his study of the idea of freedom from the period of the Reformation in Europe. It was a period when the traditional feudal system collapsed and the wave of industrialization washed over the country at a rapid pace. The social structure of lord and vassal collapsed. It was a period when people lost the certainty of social position that the feudal hierarchy had offered. It was also a period of religious changes, as the theology of Protestantism became a powerful and widespread reaction against the oppression of the Catholic Church. Fromm explains the theology of Luther and Calvin as the religious extension of the Industrial Revolution, as it gave structure to the masses and prepared them for the requirements of the industrial world. Fromm feels that these theologies rose as an answer to the social needs of the time, addressing the newfound state of man as an individual entity separate from the social hierarchical model, yet maintaining a certain moral hierarchy with God as the ultimate controlling power as represented by the relationship between man and God in Protestant theology. The preaching of Luther and Calvin emphasized on work as the goal of life, as an end in itself, as work led to salvation and the grace of God. This was in fact a preparatory factor for the masses that were to become slaves of the industrial machinery, a social structure where work and frugality were most valuable. Fromm also points out that it was the middle class that underwent most social change in terms of religion, and shows how it was this class that faced most difficulties and upheavals that led to resentment disguised as moral outrage against the higher and lower classes.

Fromm moves on to modern man’s relationship with freedom. In this age of capitalism that had found its inception during the Industrial Revolution, Fromm feels that the principal of individualistic activity is of the utmost importance. It is this very concept that is found essential in the socio-economic aspects of capitalism that is reflected in the religious theology of Luther and Calvin. The emphasis on work as a major goal in life increases, as can be expected for the serving of the capitalistic institutions. There is an alienation in the relationships of man with man, as all contact continues to become impersonal where the individual becomes of little consequence, nothing more than a cog in the giant machinery of capitalistic institutions. It is from a situation like this that the seeds of authoritarian ideologies like Nazism grow, in order to fulfill the intense social emptiness and lack of structure and belonging. However, before continuing with the psychological sources of Nazism, Fromm talks about the various machinery of escape that human beings tend to take up in  order to escape the unbearable loneliness caused by negative freedom. He talks of the authoritarian character type that is both sadistic in his tendency towards absolute physical and spiritual control of his subject, as well as masochistic in wanting desperately to submit completely to a higher power. Surprisingly, Fromm shows these seemingly contradictory character types to be actually of the same origin and striving towards the same goal – removing one’s emptiness and loneliness through complete association with one’s subject. Then there is the destructive character type, an extreme form of sadism where the person tries to destroy the outer world that seems bigger and therefore ominous and beyond his control. He removes the source of fear in order to overcome it. And then there is the type that falls for automaton conformity – a situation where the person fully negates his individuality and becomes an unthinking automaton in service to a higher power. His method of overcoming the loneliness of freedom is by doing away with the ‘self’.

Fromm talks about the lower middle class in Germany – the biggest supporters of Hitler – as essentially members of the authoritarian character type. They looked up to Hitler with their masochistic urges towards submission, while their sadistic tendencies were fulfilled by the oppression of the very many victims of Nazism, most significantly the Jews. Hitler himself was a supreme example of the authoritarian character type. Fromm makes many references to Hitler’s own writings in Mein Kampf to testify to this. Hitler was obsessed with mastery over humankind, and yet accepted absolute slavery to Nature, God or Fate. Another section of the German populace that never supported Nazism but came to accept the regime without much opposition Fromm dismisses as the section that was psychologically tired and resigned and without much moral resistance. This chapter is, in my opinion, one of the most interesting chapters in the book. As a student of history I have read quite a bit about the economic and the political causes of the rise of Nazism. But I have often wondered about why the doctrine came to be as popular with such a large number of people, and also why in Germany specifically. This chapter greatly answers my questions. However, just in case somebody misinterprets Nazism as merely a psychological phenomenon, he clarifies repeatedly right at the beginning that a true explanation for the rise of Nazism can only be found by the study of the social, economic, political and psychological conditions in their entirety prevailing in Germany at the time.

Fromm concludes his book with a study of the meaning and value of freedom in democratic countries. He feels that the populace in democratic societies live under the impression of freedom, but in fact this idea of individuality is nothing more than an illusion. He maintains that the modern democratic man is not truly free; though he does not suffer the manifold external oppression that his forefathers faced, there is a great degree of internal oppression that keeps him from being truly free. He feels that the modern man is incapable of having truly individual thoughts because he is overwhelmingly brainwashed and conditioned by society. One cannot even adequately differentiate between original thoughts and ideas imbibed from the external world because these ideas have become so ingrained as to be a part of one’s own mind. What Fromm is talking about here is nothing other than ‘herd mentality’, often suger-coated as ‘social character’, a silent killer of all truly individualistic urges and activity. I quote here – “(Modern man) desperately clings to the notion of individuality; he wants to be “different”, and he has no greater recommendation of anything than that “It is different””. Does this not sound familiar to my generation? Is this not what we say we strive towards becoming? In this attempt at becoming ‘different’ together, we have only managed to become hordes of maddeningly homogeneous masses, all chanting the mantra of individuality while taking conformity to the highest level possible – conformity of thought and emotion!

According to Fromm, real freedom, or positive freedom is only achieved through “the active and spontaneous realization of the individual self”. The spontaneous self-expression without conformity to invisible social norms, without the constant urge to mix in and be one of the herd, is what the ultimate expression of freedom should be. According to Fromm, it is only when a person reaches this level of psychological maturity that freedom becomes truly meaningful – and even safe – in his hands. At this point he no longer feels the need to come under the forceful authority of external powers; it is only then that he is truly safe from submission to regimes and ideologies like Nazism.

 Fear of Freedom is undoubtedly one of the most enlightening books I have ever read. No amount of  rote textbook learning could have given me this sense of a certain level of understanding of my fellow man and his actions. In fact, Fromm himself talks about the ills of unthinking memorization of facts in this book as a deterrent to the growth of true individuality. How I wish we had more books like this prescribed as textbooks in high school. It might have led to a somewhat saner generation of human beings. Thank you baba, for recommending this book, as always. 

This and that and New Year wishes

So the year has come to an end. In a few more hours, 2015 will be history. Like always, looking back makes me feel that the year passed at a breathless pace, in the wink of an eye. But God knows that is not how I felt when I was actually living through some of the days. 2015 has been a truly remarkable year, and not always in a positive sense. It has been a life-changing year in many ways, and I cannot deny that I am relieved that it is coming to an end in a quiet, uneventful way. In fact, one of the most ardent prayers I have for the coming year is that it be a comparatively peaceful, uneventful, unremarkable one.

The year started out with my preparing and then appearing for the ISC examinations, the final step before passing out of the boundary of school. I did not have a very happy school life, so I was very glad to have reached the end of it. I spent the early months with dad in Durgapur, and returned to Kolkata to sit for the examinations in end February. The exams – only six papers – were spread out over a month, a tedious month that I spent shuttling between my two homes because dad had his yearly admissions bang in the middle of the exams. With the end of the examinations in end March (or was it early April? It is incredible how quickly memories fade) I spent a few days in Kolkata, sleeping off the examination weariness and “hanging out” with friends, as our generation likes to put it, and then headed for Durgapur. Dad had been looking forward to this year ever since 2013, because the long breaks meant that I could spend a lot of time with him in Durgapur. We spent a very pleasant April together, eating out, watching movies, going on long scooter rides, going swimming, eagerly anticipating my upcoming college admissions. All was going hunky dory, and then May 19th happened. I have already written about the accident so I will not repeat myself now; suffice it to say that it was a traumatic event – as all accidents are – and the aftermath still hangs heavily over us. Thankfully, dad has had a miraculous recovery, and he is walking around with his normal marching pace. In fact, we have a trip planned at the end of the coming week; we shall be off to the mountains after a gap of nearly eighteen months, and I’m certain we will have a wonderful time walking around the lovely mountain roads. Some pain persists, but it is bearable, and hopefully will not give dad too much trouble during our trip.

This year was stormy in more ways than one. I lost three friends – one of them a senior in college who passed away days before Christmas – and so it is little surprise that I have been thinking quite a bit about mortality. Does one really ever know when one’s time will be up? We humans tend to take so much for granted; we waste so much time under the impression that we have forever to get things done. We let friendships wane, love loses its flame, we delay vacations and family reunions – all the while thinking that we can do it tomorrow, the next month, five years later. But how do we know that we will be around tomorrow? If there is one resolution that I want to make for the next year and ask others to think about, it would be not to keep things for later, especially in terms of human relationships. If you have had a fight with a close friend, go ahead and apologise instead of waiting for her to do it. Get back in touch with people you were fond of but have fallen out of touch with. Do not hold grudges; let complaints pass as far as you can. If you fancy someone, go ahead and own up. And do it for your own happiness, because at the end of the day, “none of us is getting out of here alive” as some smarty pants said on the internet. Holding on to all the anger and pain and longing is just not worth it.

After that sermon, I have to admit that “do it now” is a dictum that I need to imbibe and practise in a lot of less abstract and philosophical situations. There is a term called lyaad that my Bengali readers will understand. The closest translation that I can think of is an extreme level of lethargy in engaging in any activity whatsoever. It is the sort of lethargy that makes getting out of bed feel like an insurmountable ordeal, and settling down comfortably in a cozy corner you feel like staying there indefinitely. I have been bitten by that lyaad bug, so characteristic of Jadavpur University students. The fact is that I have always had the tendency to being lethargic; I have now found an environment fantastically suited to nurture the instinct. How bad the affliction is can be judged by the number of blogposts I have put up this year. I enjoy writing, yet this strange apathy towards any activity keeps me from doing the very things I love. If there is one thing that I have done diligently this year, it is watching movies and TV shows. Which would have been fine if I had been doing more productive things alongwith, like reading books and writing and playing my synthesizer and learning French and even exercising. This is what I need to change for the coming year. No more procrastination. I will set myself assignments and deadlines if needed, but I will get things done!

The year has witnessed a lot of changing relationship dynamics for me. I have had a childhood friend drift away for no obvious reason and despite considerable efforts on my part to keep in touch. I had misunderstandings with a friend I made in my previous school, and we fell out of touch for months. It was only recently that I thought about it and realized how silly the entire fight was. I got back in touch with her, and thankfully things are all fine again. I made a couple of friends overseas, even got romantically involved with one for a while, only to face the inevitable demise that is the lot of most long distance relationships. But most interesting have been the various ups and downs with the people in college through the semester. By now I think I can no longer count how many times I have had to change my opinion about many people around me, and it has only been one semester! But in spite of the highs and lows I have met some really wonderful people, many of them with funny quirky habits, and I can only hope that some of these friendships last long. A very good thing about our college is the close-knit friendships that develop between seniors and juniors, at least in some of the departments. Or maybe I should not generalize at all, and just be thankful that some of my own seniors are delightful, and I can now think of quite a few of them as close friends. There is one particular senior that I am especially thankful to, somebody who made a conscious effort to talk to me when I was lonely and without too many friends. He helped me open up and make friends and even get over post-breakup depression. Afterwards I came to know that it was not just out of the goodness of his heart; he did have an agendum in his mind, but that does not make me resentful, because that does not change how much I enjoyed myself talking to him. I am fonder of him than any other friend or senior, and I am glad to have met him. Of course, most boys I am fond of tend to be more than slightly nutty, and that holds true this time as well. I am hoping the person concerned will never happen to read this, but even if he does, I have the feeling that he might agree with me!

But on to other things before I make this post sound any more like a cheesy chick-lit declaration of undying love! Getting into Jadavpur has been the undeniable high point of this year for me. Even till the beginning of the year I had thought of studying law, and I even prepared and sat for two law entrance tests. But to be honest I had lost all intention of joining law school after learning about life in law schools from a lawyer ex-student of dad’s. That kind of regulated, rushed, competitive environment did not appeal to me at all, and so I did not work too hard for the entrance tests. And in any case dad was due for surgery the day the results were declared. I did not even check which law schools I was eligible for according to my rank! Since dad and I had already made up our minds that I would stay put in Kolkata for my undergraduate degree, I did not apply to the Delhi colleges except for JNU. In Kolkata I had my heart set on Jadavpur University, though I did apply to a couple of other places. I was first offered admission to Scottish Church College in Kolkata, which I accepted with some reluctance. With Jadavpur it was a really close shave; I was 43rd on the waiting list for the General candidates, and I was the last person to be offered admission. I had given up all hope of getting admitted, so I went numb with shock when the admission office announced my name. The day of the admission and the first few days of class are blurred in my memory. My friends and I now laugh about some of my stupid actions from that first week. But I am a third generation JU student, the fifth from my family, and I could not be happier. For the first time I actually look forward impatiently to going to an educational institution and express thankfulness at the dearth of holidays, much to dad’s chagrin. I aced the JNU language entrance test and was offered admission about two weeks after classes started in JU, but I was already way too much in love with the place to even consider going off to Delhi.

My experience of the first semester in Jadavpur University will have to be a separate post by itself. There is so much to write about, so much to reflect on. From classes to friends to libraries to canteens to crushes to university politics – it has been a whirlwind. Some of the things I did were hilarious, some quite dangerous, and some downright silly. I dare not write candidly about all of it; someday I might have my own children reading these posts, and I do not want to scandalize them, or even worse, give them ideas! I am starting to have quite a collection of my own “don’t do anything that I would have done” experiences. Richard Castle would be proud of me! The second semester starts this Monday and I cannot wait to go back. This semester I hope to be a little more serious, a little more focused on my work. After all, I have only five more semesters left to make the most of my time here. Of course there is a good chance that I might continue with my post-graduation course here itself, but I hope to try for someplace else. Let us see how things play out.

Daylight is fading; the last day of the year is coming to an end. Soon it will be dark and comfortably chilly. I will snuggle into bed with a hot cup of coffee and watch Star Wars with dad. An ideal end to a less-than-ideal year. Here’s to love and hope and joy and renewed vigour and passion, and a wonderful time ahead. Happy New Year everyone. 

The best laid plans of mice and men...

They say that Man proposes, God disposes. At no time is this dictum better understood than when tragedy hits. Lives change in a fraction of a second, and so many plans lie in ruins.

Last Tuesday, I was returning from Kolkata to meet daddy. My ISC results had just come out the previous day, and having done fairly well, I was coming with a happy heart. They were showing Piku in the bus, and those who have watched the movie would understand when I say I was a little depressed by the time it got over. I got down at Muchipara, and was surprised to see dad absent. I had called him some seven minutes back to tell him that the bus had almost reached Durgapur, and since he always stands at the bus stop waiting for me, my surprise was obvious. I had just started fiddling with my phone with the intention of giving him a call when a man came forward with his son, asked me whether I was Suvro Sir’s daughter, and told me my father had had an accident.

Autopilot kicked in. I vaguely remember the man assuring me that it was just dad’s leg that had been hurt; I think that was his way of telling me the accident wasn’t fatal. I crossed the road (thankfully, even under stress I had enough sense to make sure there were no cars nearby before rushing across), and found a large number of people gathered near a shop façade. Dad was sitting on the ground with his legs spread out. His right leg was strangely twisted and swollen like a mound just over his ankle. He was sweating profusely. He greeted me with a strained and rueful smile: “bhenge diyechhe ma” (“he broke it, darling”). It turned out that daddy had parked his scooter and started to cross the highway on foot. He is an ultra careful man, and had checked that were no cars coming down the one way lane. He was about to look at the other direction (the traffic on Indian roads being notorious for breaking all rules) when a man on a motorcycle came speeding from the wrong side and hit him. He somersaulted in the air and fell down in the middle of the road. His reflexes were unbelievable – he managed to land on his hands and feet and so saved his head, otherwise I shudder to think what I might have had to witness when I arrived. He tried to stand up, and the excruciating pain in his right leg told him that the bone had broken. He sat back down and managed to drag himself to the edge of the road. Even in such agony he was clear-headed enough to realize that he was in mortal danger as long as he remained in the middle of the highway. Thankfully, it was broad daylight, and the area being highly congested, a large number of people recognized dad and came running to help him. The motorcyclist had already recovered from his own fall and sped away for fear of being lynched by the public.

My brain was a swirling mess, and I still wonder how I managed to get through the next few hours without passing out or retching. There were a lot of people around dad, but everybody looked dazed and unsure about what to do. Ironically, dad was the most composed person in the gathering. He told me to call home and let the help know about the accident so that she stayed put at the house. After that, I called the family doctor and let him know about the accident. He arrived quickly enough, and put a basic bandage around dad’s leg. In the meantime, dad asked for a cigarette to calm his nerves. I had already called for an ambulance from the nearest hospital, but as we eventually found out, their ambulance service was abysmal. They kept us waiting for nearly forty five minutes before dad himself asked the people around us to arrange for a car – any car – to take him to the hospital. That was arranged, and I accompanied dad to the hospital, into the Emergency Ward. I had already let some people know about the accident, and they had promised to help.

Once dad was admitted to the Emergency ward, I started getting in touch with more people. I had already made a few phone calls, so the wheels had started turning. Two of my own friends had arrived, so I had some moral support. At first I was harassed by the hospital officials for money: they refused to even X-ray dad’s leg before I paid the requisite amount. My friend rushed back home to get me the money. But after that, following reprimands from higher-ups who knew dad well, they stopped mentioning money altogether. Later I found out that they had even given OT clearance already, long before even the first proper payment was made.

I was not allowed to stay in the Emergency ward so I waited outside with my friends. I had already signed the required admission forms. When I look back to it now, I realize what a blessing it has been that this accident occurred now, only a few months after I turned 18 and so acquired signing authority. Otherwise I would not have been able to do the required paperwork at all. After waiting some more, my friend Sagarika and I returned to the house while the other friend, Anushua, went home. I had not even had the chance to wash my face since 7.30 in the morning when I had left home in Kolkata, and it was already 2 in the afternoon. Returning home, I took a bath and both of us had a quick lunch. Dad had classes from 3, so his students had started pouring in. Sagarika and I informed them of the accident. It did not seem to register with many people that dad had been hospitalized. As we saw over the next few days, many people asked astoundingly idiotic questions, the most common being whether the class would be held that day or not!   

Anyway, we were back in the hospital soon, and found that dad was (finally) being transferred to a ward. The surgeon had paid dad a visit and confirmed that surgery would be necessary to set the bone. Apparently the leg had suffered from two fractures: one in the fibula just under the knee cap, which would heal naturally, and the other (the worse one) in the tibia above the ankle. That was the ugly mound I had seen. Eventually the X-ray revealed that the bone had snapped clean into two parts. This was the one which would have to be surgically fitted with a metal plate. Unfortunately, the surgery had been scheduled for the next night, because a medicine that dad regularly takes had made immediate surgery risky.

By this time the crisis was behind us. Dad was in good hands, of that I was sure. Enough people had been informed of the mishap, and were streaming in to visit. Mom was on her way to Durgapur from Kolkata. I had informed her of the accident immediately I arrived, and she had left home within half an hour. I was no longer alone. But nevertheless I was quite traumatized.

The evening passed quickly. Mom arrived, and Sagarika finally left. Another, much older ex-student of dad’s, Prodipto Da, had come to keep dad company, as had many others. I could go home now and take a breather. It is important to mention that in all this while dad did not once complain or bemoan his fate, even though he was in agony: he only apologized repeatedly for ‘putting me to so much trouble.’ It was seeing dad so calm and serene that helped me keep my cool. I visited him once more later that evening, smartly defying hospital rules about visiting hours. Later, I took a sleeping pill to get to bed; otherwise there would have been no sleep that night for me.

The next day mom and I reached the hospital by 9 in the morning, and found dad already shifted to a private cabin (he had been placed in a semi-private ward the previous day due to lack of private beds). He was drowsy with pain and drugs, and drifted in and out of sleep the whole day. Mom went home a while later; I stayed put. I was going to be dad’s 24-hour attendant. The day passed uneventfully. Dad had numerous visitors. By evening, he was being prepared for the operating theatre. The surgery was scheduled for 7.30 in the evening. Dad was taken into the OT by 7.45. I tried to keep an unfazed exterior, but inside there was a storm raging. Apparently I had watched one too many episodes of the TV show House MD, and could not keep out of my mind numerous horrible ways that things could go wrong on the operating table. After dad had been taken in, I went out to smoke a quick fag to soothe my nerves and went to the hospital cafeteria for a cup of coffee. The surgery was supposed to take around an hour. I had just started taking a sip when I received a call from the OT, telling me that there was a problem and would a family member please come quickly? Imagine my horror at that! I dashed upstairs and would have burst through the door had I not braked well. Once there, an attendant informed me that there wasn’t any ‘problem’ after all; a silly nurse had overturned the bowl where the surgical instruments had been soaked for sterilization, and so they had been forced to delay the surgery by half an hour! I was so furious I could eat the man’s head. The dullard had no clue about the kind of anxiety he had put us through by his stupid choice of words! Problem, indeed!

The surgery went on till 10.30. All the while I had live earthworms gnawing at my stomach, though Prodipto Da did his best to keep me distracted. The poor fellow talked incessantly for two hours just to keep my mind off things! Of course, I kept behaving like a jack-in-the-box, jumping up every time the door to the waiting hall opened or the telephone rang. Eventually, at around 10.45 we were informed that the surgery was over. I practically flew up two floors to the OT, and there we met the surgeon. At that moment, and I am not exaggerating here, I felt he was an incarnation of Divinity, sent there just to assuage my fears. The dear man told us that there were no complications, and we could go and meet daddy one by one. It was with an effort that I stopped myself from giving him a bear hug.

I was the first one in to meet daddy. He was fully conscious; they had given him a spinal cord anesthesia for the operation, so though his body was unconscious waist down, he could talk normally enough. He was shivering violently at that time; the air conditioner kept on during the surgery had nearly frozen him to the bones. Otherwise he was just fine. The rest went in one by one to meet him, and after everyone was reassured about dad’s condition, mom and grandma went back home. I saw them off, and then Prodipto Da saw me to the hospital elevator before heading home himself. It had been a long day for everyone.  

Back in the cabin, I made myself comfortable on the attendant’s couch to keep an eye on dad during the night. Dad had already been brought to the cabin. We requested double blankets for both of us. After tucking dad in well, I settled down for the night’s vigil. On Prodipto Da’s advice I did not try to stay awake all night. Instead, I kept snoozing after setting my alarm for every ten to fifteen minutes. The method was as clumsy as it sounds, but it worked for me. Dad was drowsy and sometimes half conscious, and I was worried about any problems during the night. But I could have slept peacefully. The night time attendant, a Rajput male nurse, was highly efficient and diligent at his job. He gave dad drips and medicines and replenished them at the right time. By four in the morning, dad had regained much of the sensation in his legs. He had been given his first meal at that time, and after that there really wasn’t much I needed to think of, so I finally gave in to my overpowering drowsiness and slept for the next hour and half.

The next day once again passed peacefully. Daddy slept most of the morning, and I snoozed. Later in the afternoon grandma took my place and I went home. I returned in the evening with my aunt, dad’s elder sister. After a long time, the accident had brought much of the family together. Even tragedies have some silver linings I suppose. Once again I spent the night in the hospital with dad. One day after the surgery he was already desperate to go home, despite the pain. He had been given a walker with which he could hop around, but even with that he was more self reliant than many healthy people can be. In the end, he even started smoking cigarettes in the room and managed to alert the security men in the hope of being kicked out of the hospital quickly. His wish was granted, and daddy was discharged from the hospital on Friday afternoon with strict warnings and threats from the doctors about how badly things could go wrong if he put his leg down under any circumstances. No weight-bearing was to be done on the right leg. So three days after the accident, dad was back at home.

Dad is stuck to the ground floor for the next couple of months. Mom and I are doing all the house work and the running up and down stairs. Mom will leave in a while, and then it will be all up to me. This is giving me very good practice of running a house, and all the climbing of stairs is making up for my lack of working out, so I’m not complaining. Dad, on the other hand is probably the most active and self reliant patient that ever lived. He has started his classes already, and is doing almost everything by himself. He is hopping around with his walker like an expert, and sometimes one has to make an effort to remember that he had a surgery just a week ago! Talk about independence!

So much for the summary of events. One reason why I wanted to write this post (other than the fact that dad was after my life about it!) was because these last several days have been an interesting study of human nature. I want this post to be a constant reminder to myself about how much good can come of even the worst time of one’s life. The amount of human goodness I’ve seen in such a short while is baffling and humbling. At the same time, there have been unpleasantries, but they have been mostly due to people’s ignorance and lack of good sense (mothers of students calling up to ask about their sons’ progress in class even though they know about dad’s accident) than due to malice, so I choose to ignore them. So this post is going to be my way of showing gratitude where it is greatly deserved.

Right from the time of the accident, dad has been surrounded by helpful neighbours and acquaintances. They have travelled with us to the hospital and stuck around as long as I needed their help. The man whose car it was that took dad to the hospital has not yet mentioned his fees or come to collect the money, even though he is a professional driver and a poor man for whom that money would make a difference. The number of poor, ordinary people who have selflessly offered help even after we returned home is humbling: thanks to their kindness I don’t have to worry about going shopping for groceries or vegetables or medicines, they are going to deliver it all to the house. I feel ashamed of myself now when I think of the number of times I’ve taken out my anger by unfairly blaming these ordinary good people for the quality of their wares and myriad other reasons.

Dad’s students and their guardians have also been very understanding. A very great number of them have called up to ask after dad. Not one has complained about the missed classes, and many have assured me that it wasn’t the classes that they were worried about at all; what mattered was that their Sir got better quickly. Now that dad has started teaching again, many have come forward suggesting that dad take a longer break to quicken his recovery. So many ex-students keep turning up or calling over the phone asking after dad constantly. We keep complaining about how self centered and mercenery people today are; this recent experience is ample evidence that not all is lost, that kindness and empathy exists still.

There are some people who I need to mention individually for all the help they have rendered. My dear friends Sagarika and Anushua have been with me from the day of the accident. Their moral support has been invaluable, and has helped me go through the time when I was feeling most lonely and lost. Thank you both for being there.

Little boy Swapnayu is not so little any more. He has been beside us throughout the ordeal, and helped in so many big and small ways, and is still doing it. His presence too has been a great psychological help to me, for which I’m infinitely grateful.

Prodipto Da has been beside daddy from day 1. He was the one who took up the very difficult task of keeping me calm during the surgery. I couldn’t thank him enough for that.

To all the jethus and kakus who did so much at the hospital and beyond, a big ‘thank you’. Things could never have gone on so smoothly if all of you hadn’t been there.

To all the other dadas who I know have been worrying their heads off about dad: Akash da and Subhodip da and Nishant da and Saikat da and the numerous others I don’t know the names of, thank you. Your concern is such a morale booster for daddy.

One of the many things that made me proud was the compliment paid by the (male-) nurse, who told dad he had never seen a patient as quiet, as cooperative, as gracious as dad in all his years at the hospital. “Most of them, especially those who stay in private suites, behave as if they own the place, and show it by being as bossy and abusive as they can.” Funny, considering that dad is emphatic about his belief that all men are not equal, and do not deserve to be treated as equals!

 And lastly, but definitely not the least, I have to mention a special friend. This friend of mine lives half a world away in the United States. He has never met me or my family, but when he heard of the accident, he was so agitated that he wrote a poem for us, wishing dad’s speedy recovery. Here is that poem.

Dear child in sorrow

I have naught words to spend

Not syllables suffused with sufficient grief

Or loving letters potent to mend

What harm and horror robs thine heart’s relief,

And steals all thought for the morrow

Yet with words fair, one might repair

The scattered, shattered pieces of thine world,

Might help to ease your troubled mind,

Soften ‘n soothe the pain upon thee hurled

And find the peace that might thine wounds bind,

Through the meager, desperate words of my prayer

For words have life beyond this realm of tears,

And live much longer than dusty lips

Whose uttering doth make them thence immortal

And which no shadow of time may eclipse

Unreachable through any temporal portal

Immune to all mortal fears

But my prayer goes to no court of Heaven

Though it ascends like holy breath,

Nor does it rot in a chamber of Hell

Though it seeks thee and thine brushed by death,

It flies with no demon, hampers no angel—

Only a wishful prayer, sent as comforting leaven.

My prayer and sympathy are for thee and thine,

Hidden by flesh from all covetous seraph’s glare,

It is for thee I weep and weave my far off cries!

Not for imagined glory, nor jealous divinity that I care,

For thine bleeding heart, swiftly, my love flies!

And so now I write my earthly prayer:

Lord of Love—essence of all human heart

Like the moon bewitched by night

Swallow all their sadness—loose thine healing art!

Lord of Joy—harbinger of the blessed

Like the noon bejeweled by light,

Bathe them all in gladness—banish all their dread!

Lord of Mercy—beloved instinct of the soul

Like the rune bespoken by sight,

Hide ye not in madness—collect no bloody toll!

And Lord of Hate—accursed poison of the mind

Get thee into darkness, cast off by the kind!

Lord of Agony—dread torment of the bone

Get thee into dust, cease thy sanguine groan!

Lord of Death—pitiless collector of the flesh

Get thee with Mercy!—spare whose blood is fresh!

And mortals with immortal tasks,

Human faces in celestial masks,

Let no Darkling worsen,

Shed thine grosser person,

Fight and slay and kill those vile specters

And take up thine appointed mantle as protectors

And if immortals do exist,

Born with but a grain of love

Demand thy profane brethren desist—

Beseech help from above!

Amen and Amen!

And let it be no mocking knell.

But let quick joy arrive again

And thus thine next letter excitedly tell

Of hope and healthy recovery swell—

That all is blissfully well

For it is on thee and thine father—

Though I pray half a world away—

On whom I dwell.

This piece of poetry has given me so much comfort during dad’s stay at the hospital and afterwards. I cannot compose poetry to save my life, but I can show appreciation where it is due. My friend insisted on remaining unnamed, much to my sorrow. But you know who you are, so once again, thank you for caring. It has meant so much to me. I have written derisively about Americans in my blog before; people like you prove that Americans can be so much more than just crass and illiterate and self centered.

My greatest takeaway from this entire experience is that I am now more devoutly spiritual than ever before. I believe that the fact that something much worse did not happen is because somebody Up There did not want it to happen. I believe that the reason I found the strength to take charge when I had to was because I was given it. If I had ever nurtured even the slightest doubts about divinity, it is now gone for good. So now my faith allows me to sit back and relax, and let the future take its own course. I am no longer worried; I know somebody greater than I is taking care of things. I can be at peace.