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.

Women's empowerment and household chores

I did not mean to write a post for Women’s Day. I find it rather tiring to wake up in the morning and remind myself of my gender. I’d rather be just a human being. Wouldn't that actually solve a lot of problems, if people spent less time and energy asserting their masculinity or femininity, and treated each other merely as fellow human beings? Anyway, so here is the reason why I decided to write on a women’s issue at this point. All my Bengali readers take a look at this article. For those who cannot read Bengali, I apologise for not translating the entire essay. Here is a quick summary for them: The writer, one Swati Bhattacharya, has put forward the view that it is women’s attraction for and contribution towards all sorts of household chores – from cleaning and cooking to gardening and knitting – that has caused them to lag behind in the job market. The writer feels that the pursuit of such ‘banal’ and ‘petty’ activities makes women less willing to take up careers – something that would have automatically meant their ‘transcendence’ (uttaran) into better lives. She gives some valid examples about how there are much fewer women than men in most professions – journalism and writing and scientific research for example. She feels this is due to the fact that women have internalized the age-old dictum of their places being in homes and kitchens. She has lamented about how patriarchy has brainwashed women into wanting to return to the very families that abuse and torture them, and even, in some extreme cases, take their lives. She ends with the metaphor of prisoners wanting to return to their incarceration after the jail has been destroyed in order to free them: she feels that no amount of external freedom and opportunities can really free women unless they can throw away the ‘shackles’ that household work represents.

While I agree in spirit with the point Ms Bhattacharya has tried to raise about increasing participation of women in different fields of work, I am infuriated by the reasons offered by her for the gender divide in jobs. I have several things to say in this regard, so I will address the writer for the rest of this post.

Dear Ms Bhattacharya,

I am a fairly educated, independent, discerning young woman of the 21^st century, brought up in a highly liberal family. I have career ambitions and high hopes for my future, and I am sorry to see so few of my classmates having the same. I have never been indoctrinated by the ideas of a ‘woman’s place’ and gender roles. But I have been deeply insulted and pained by the views you have expressed in your article for Women’s Day. I am guessing you are a feminist; I am not. I believe in rights of a much broader sort: human rights. I believe in the right every single human being has to decide what sort of life s/he wants for herself or himself. Every single person has the right to live exactly as one wants to, as long as one is not doing this by hurting or unduly infringing upon the same rights of those around oneself.

Don’t feminists always shout themselves hoarse about how men are always telling them what to do and how to live their lives? Well, Ms Bhattacharya, what makes you think that just because you are a woman yourself, you have a right to dictate to other women about how to live good lives? What gave you the idea that the path shown by you is the only one that will lead to the liberation of women? Have you not noticed that you are doing the very thing that feminists always blame men for doing: trying to enforce your opinions on fellow human beings who are quite capable of making their own decisions – because for some reason you think you are superior?

Speaking of liberation, why should this word have only one interpretation: yours? You have understood liberation in one way; other people might have very different opinions. Personally, I find the Islamic burqa a rather restrictive device, and would hate to have to wear one. However, there are thousands of Muslim women – and not just uneducated religious fanatics – who claim that they find a certain freedom behind their veils, and wear them of their own volition without any male ever trying to enforce it. As my friend commented in the previous post, to each his own, and the sign of true civilization would be the acceptance of such differences without the automatic presumption of one’s own opinion being the only worthwhile one.  

You say that it is the importance that women give to household work that has led to their lower interest in career building. Many women give up their jobs once they get married or have children, because they want to devote all their time to their families. I have thought about this at some length. I think that in this matter a lot depends, or should depend, on the individual under consideration. There are surely many women in our society who would have liked to build their own careers – however small or big – and are forced into, albeit not always through abuse, choosing familial responsibilities over career-building. These women have my full sympathy, and I think it is a shame that even today women are compelled to make this choice without any support from either their spouses or their parents. But what you, Ms Bhattacharya, have tried to assert is that all women make this choice under compulsion, and all women would have done better to choose careers over families. Now there are two things that I want to say in this context: firstly, this idea of having to choose is not a worldwide concept. Women in many countries have been juggling families and careers for many years now. It is very much possible, and once our society – both men and women – start accepting this more readily, this problem of choice will hopefully subside. Secondly, for all the women out there who willingly choose to build homes rather than careers, who are you to say whether their choice has been right, or even good?

You talk of how the only thing worth doing is bringing about ‘transcendence’ of the human condition. Let us consider the many women who do take up various professions. You are a journalist yourself. Think of all the page three material that journalists write about on a daily basis. Is that transcendence? Many women take up teaching in schools as a preferred career. Having recently finished my fourteen year long school life, I will say that the biggest contribution of my teachers in my life have been bitter memories. School teachers spend a large part of their time thinking up ways in which to torment, irritate, gag and manipulate their pupils. By choosing to build careers, these women have permanently tarnished the reputation of schools and the experiences of students. And the many women who take up jobs in various IT companies, earn pittances and then waste it on exorbitant objects of self-beautification, and spend all their free time moving their backsides in discotheques trying to attract males of the very same mental level: have they achieved ‘transcendence’ of any sort? You have used the word uttaran, which translates into ‘transcendence’, but can also mean ‘climbing up’. Do monkeys also achieve uttaran when they jump up walls?

The ISIS think they are bringing about transcendence of the human condition by chopping off the heads of all non-believers. Hitler thought the same when he tried to make the Germans the master race and exterminate all Jews and anybody else who did not fit into his description of the ideal Aryan. Maybe you will call their actions progressive and ask all your fellow working women to mete out the same treatment to their non-working contemporaries? And if not, why not? Because their views don’t agree with yours? Or because you feel comfortable to think that your views somehow have to be right?

And now I come to the part that I find the most offensive of all. You call household chores banal and petty. How dare you? Who on earth gave you the right to decide what is petty and what is important? You say that there is no glory in making a perfectly shaped luchi: and I suppose it is so much more glorious to be a saleswoman in a supermarket or a grumpy ticket seller in a government bus station? Or maybe, a journalist who writes on topics which are ‘in’ at the moment? And why should everybody have to chase glory anyway? If I enjoy cleaning and decorating my home and cooking for my family, I am one happy woman doing these things, and my family is one happy family with a warm and cosy home to come back to. So what if I am not helping to take forward some ‘greater cause’? Maybe I have found happiness and fulfillment in my life that way: why do you grudge me that? In the example you give of your writer friend lamenting about how her acquaintance gave up a career in writing in favour of gardening and looking after the dog, all I can say is that just because you may not love dogs it doesn't mean that all women mustn't! You say that somebody else could have fed the dog while this girl honed her writing skills. I suppose you will laud only the woman who lets somebody else bring up her children and look after her aged and ill parents while she concentrates upon her career. After all, parents and children are part of the family, that prison-like system that prevents women from becoming (mostly) professional mediocrities!

Are you yourself a pathetic cook who has never been able to tell the difference between tea and kalo jeera, and keep your room like a permanent battleground, depending on your mother or your daughter or your maid for looking after your daily needs, while you can look down on them with scorn from your throne of a woman who earns her own living? If that is so, I have nothing but pity for you. Yours is a pathetic lot indeed; having failed to do anything of real significance in your career (from starting your own company to a charitable institution that does some real work for deprived women to writing a great book), you are now taking out your frustration by sneering upon women who perhaps have found happiness in life through their families and households. Believe me, there are millions of such women all around the world. Thankfully, your voice is really of little consequence: I will still go on keeping house and indulging in my feminine interests like knitting and cooking and colour coordinating upholstery, and hopefully my husband and children will derive much pleasure from these one day, just as my parents do now.

But be thankful that you and I shall never meet, for I’ll make sure to put salt instead of sugar in your coffee and darn your white dress with black thread – just to remind you of the significance of household activities and of those who take these activities seriously.

Is humour the bane of civility?

A very belated happy new year to all my readers. It is shameful for how long I have been away from the blog. I have been suffering from a heavy bout of writer’s block, and maybe an even heavier bout of sheer laziness. Anyway, I am back now, and hopefully I will be more regular with my writing this year than I have been in the previous few years.

Though I have not written in very many months, I have been thinking a great deal all this time. A lot of issues and ideas have swirled around inside my head, clogging me up at times. I will talk about some of them as I write throughout the year, hopefully. Right now, I have something in mind which is, I think, very pertinent in every human life. I am talking about humour.

Humour is an integral part, a basic necessity even, of life. Nobody likes being around a person who is a grumpy old bore. One reason why Percy Weasley was such an irritating character was that he could not recognize a joke even if it danced in front of him wearing only Dobby’s tea cozy. A sense of humour quickly establishes a person’s goodwill. The lack of it, especially in people working in public relations of various kinds (in my personal experience, teachers are common offenders of this kind), can make life miserable for not only oneself, but even more so for people one deals with. It also comes in handy while going through the rough patches of life. The man who can laugh at himself and the troubles he faces is a happy man indeed.

What is it that makes people laugh? This question is universal in nature, and yet it will elicit vastly different answers from different people. What one finds funny and enjoyable, though seemingly a very personal choice, is actually influenced by a lot of external factors: which country and which time in history one is born in, the religion one follows, the tastes and preferences of one’s parents, relatives, and not to forget, one’s peer group, are some such factors. These factors are much more powerful that they are generally credited to be; they colour a person’s character and form his personality to a large extent. And that is precisely why there is cause for worry when a large section of the population starts “enjoying” themselves at the cost of another very important social need – namely, good manners.

To a person born in Roman times, gladiator fights and no-holds-barred chariot racing were sources of entertainment. The 21st century man shrinks in horror at the thought of it. How barbarous, he thinks! We have advanced so much now than those poor savages, he says proudly. We live in the age of human rights! Of free speech and expression! And then out he goes, and spends thousands of rupees to buy a ticket to a “roast” by AIB. Now this is what you call civilized entertainment. Right?

For those of you who don’t know – I was one of them till a few weeks ago, and not much of a loser for that – a “roast” is a “comedy show” where celebrities are subjected to insults of all sorts for the entertainment of the wider audience. Wikipedia tells me that this type of event was created as a mock counter to a toast. Originally, this was supposed to be an event where a guest of honour was subjected to good-humoured jokes – good humoured, mark you – at his own expense. This was supposed to be a unique way to honour a famous person. The idea was born in America (small surprise there) and was made famous by the channel Comedy Central. Now let’s come to AIB’s recent attempt at organizing an Indian version of the same featuring actors Arjun Kapoor and Ranveer Singh with director Karan Johar as the roastmaster. Oh and I forgot to mention, AIB (look up the full form if you care) is an Indian channel on Youtube which specializes in sarcastic comedy videos. They do have some interesting videos up there. Again, look them up if interested.

I did not watch the roast. As soon as I looked up the meaning of “roasts”, I was pretty revolted and decided to give the video a miss. But after a while, what with all the hype on the internet about the controversy over the video, my curiosity got the better of me, and last evening I skimmed through some parts of the video (it has been taken off from Youtube after complaints, but is still available on other sites). I was sorry that I did. The show, which is nearly an hour long (I did not watch for longer than ten minutes, all taken), is a splendid display of all that is crass and vulgar and disgusting about human beings. The so-called jokes are mean and dirty, and do not have a trace of humour in them. Or so I thought. It is evident that thousands of people disagree vehemently with me. The audience roared with laughter as the hosts and participants carried on their game. To watch some people get nastily humiliated in public seemed to have become the most entertaining thing ever!

Generally, I would have ignored the video as something irrelevant to my life and therefore not worth my time. But then, is it really irrelevant? A great number of people are finding this sort of thing funny and enjoyable. The concept is being lauded as the sign of the “open-mindedness” and “tolerance” of Indian society. People are talking about the freedom of speech and that sort of thing in this context. Similar arguments have been used in the context of the Charlie Hebdo incident: after all, the magazine did not criticize only Islam, it was even-handed in meting out insults to all religions. So, what is basically being said is that in both cases, it is their right to be rude and vulgar and deliberately insult and cause hurt to others. Since people who are in the limelight seem to have by and large accepted and even welcomed this idea of humour, it is hardly surprising that a great number of the common folk have started emulating them already. I have classmates who take pride in calling themselves rude (I know someone who openly boasts about that, not kidding), and are often invited to be hosts in school programs where their natural affinity towards causing offence comes in useful. Just before school ended, such a program was organized by the class twelve students for themselves. In this “award ceremony”, titles were given out to their friends, people they have grown up with. Some of the titles were “Dumbelina” and “I always cheat” – you get the idea. These were friends complimenting friends, apparently. This is what entertainment and laughter has come down to. In a world where teachers are being heavily penalized for reprimanding erring students, it is considered smart and cool to be crass. To protest against such dumb spitefulness is to display “narrow mindedness” and “backwardness”. Why are all the rights and freedom meant for the perpetrators of hurt and abuse, and nobody talks about the rights of the victim of such verbal abuse? Because abuse it is, nothing can convince me to the contrary. Has our world become quite so soulless that physical pain is all important, and emotional hurt makes no difference at all? How long, then, before physical abuse too is considered to be okay, and it becomes all about survival of the fittest, where people start moving about once again with weapons and killing and maiming human beings become a form of entertainment once more?

The world is becoming an increasingly more violent and uncouth place, and nothing shows that more than such comedy shows and other forms of entertainment. We have managed to get rid of all considerations of good manners and refined tastes in the name of freedom and equality. In the many comments and discussions I read in support of the AIB’s event, one common argument that has come up in their favour is that condemning the group for showcasing in a public event the sort of language and entertainment that people use all the time in their daily lives is hypocritical. True, but I have two things to say about this: in everyday life expletives are often just used in moments of great exasperation to convey irritation and displeasure. But when dirty language is used purely for the purpose of so-called “entertainment”, surely that cannot be equated with the aforementioned circumstances and condoned in the same spirit? Also, just because something has become a norm nowadays does not necessarily mean that it is a good thing that is worth conserving. Most people swear (I must admit that I myself am guilty of it occasionally, but I do try to guard against it), but when you come to think of it, does using abusive language really make one “cool” and “smart”? Does it not show an inability to express one’s thoughts adequately through polite vocabulary? How on earth can this sort of inability make a person any more suave and sophisticated than somebody who can and does express himself only through refined, polite language? In To Kill a Mockingbird Atticus says that bad language is a stage that all children go through; it becomes a cause for worry only when it doesn't pass with time. It seems today’s society has made a concerted decision to not get past that stage of juvenility.

Speaking of laughter, I was reading P G Wodehouse the other day, and almost fell out of my bed laughing. And guess what, there was not one unpleasant or abusive word in the entire book! Think about Gerald Durrell’s writings and the Don Camilo books. For my fellow Bengalis, bring to mind Narayan Gangopadhyay’s Tenida and his ridiculous adventures, and Ghonada’s preposterous stories. Tell me, then, is dirty language really necessary to evoke laughter and joy? Or will the modern champions of free speech and rights of creativity call such works too hopelessly prosaic and restrictive to match today’s expectations of entertainment?

It is highly telling, how the politest people we meet nowadays are salesmen and hotel managers and waiters – people who are try to sell us something. Is that what politeness has come down to? Merely a means to an end, to be employed only for monetary gains? I have seen my father and some others like him who try their utmost to be polite and considerate and even bend over backwards in their efforts to ensure that the people they are dealing with are not harassed and hurt, only to be exploited for all their gentleness. Will the world really be a better place if all such instinctively nice and polite men and women decide to give up on civility and take to exploitation and gross misbehavior wherever they can get away with it?

So where do people like us go from here? People who object to coarseness, who have an affinity for gentle, subtle humour and dignified conversations, who value politeness and decency, and try to act accordingly in their day-to-day lives? The world will call us prudish and backdated, but how exactly do we change our approach without giving up on what we believe to be good and valuable? Maybe it is best for us to keep to ourselves and not get too involved in what happens in the outside world. The life of the recluse seems to be the only one for the likes of us.  

Happy Teacher's Day daddy

Today, I spent the eighteenth Teacher’s Day of my life. At least thirteen of these Teacher’s Days have been spent after I started gaining conscious thought and emotions. I have many memories about Teacher’s Day and about teachers in general. I even wrote once about Teacher’s Day celebrations in schools about four years ago. Yet, I have never thought about writing about the man who has been my lifelong teacher. So today I am going to do just that, as much for him as for myself. Baba, this essay is for you.

The first time daddy acted in a teacher-ly manner with me was a time that I have only very vague memories of. I have heard often about the incident from him, though. I do not remember how old I was at that time, but it was before I started schooling. Daddy took it upon himself to teach me Bangla. He told my mother not to worry about my learning English; that would happen automatically. Rather, they needed to consciously work on my knowledge of the mother tongue. My mother tried to do the Bengali letters of alphabet with me, but being the stubborn monkey that I was, I stoutly refused to learn them. Then, after many days of futile struggle on my mother’s part, daddy got fed up with me. One evening, after a particularly mulish display of obstinacy on my part, daddy took me in his lap and boxed my ears and held me down tightly, saying that he wasn’t going to let go until I read through the letters. I howled and threw a tantrum, but finally I did manage to read through them, and then gave daddy a tear-streaked, snot-nosed, toothy grin, saying “Ami parchhi toh” (“I can do it”)!

That was the beginning of a lifelong journey of fun and learning for me.

Daddy has always been there for me. I have always known him as a father rather than as a teacher. So, it was difficult for me to comprehend totally what his pupils really felt about him. All through primary school and middle school, I attended hardly any tuitions; I could handle most of the studies myself, and daddy was always there to sort out any confusion in any subject. But naturally, I was hysterically excited about starting my formal classes with him in high school. The thought that I would get a taste of the Suvro Sir that all his students saw him as was as great a motivation as actually being taught by him – probably more. In fact, I was so impatient to get into his classes that daddy actually started teaching class eight students to accommodate me and my friends sooner!

It is strange how some memories stand out so clearly in one’s mind that one can delve into oneself and relive the memory as many times as one wants. My first day in daddy’s class was something like that. It was a Saturday afternoon, and I went down to the classroom at 2.40, five minutes before daddy. It being the first day, he descended five minutes earlier than usual. The class was deathly quiet; my friends were sitting there with pale and subdued faces, studiously ignoring each other. I went and took the chair on daddy’s right, mentally making a resolve to claim that seat as mine permanently (which, by the way, I did!). Five minutes later, daddy came down with a broad smile. He greeted us with such warmth and kindness, that soon everyone started relaxing. After that, the class flew. Daddy told us the rules we would have to follow in order to make the most of his classes – “this is not school, don’t turn it into a zoo” is a good summary in more than one ways – and we went on to discuss a poem that the Carmelites were having problems with in school. Afterwards he dictated a model essay on “Education” to us, and we ended the class with some grammar homework. At the end, all the boys and girls left the room grinning broadly and chattering to their hearts’ content, as if they had known this man forever. Ironically, in all the three years that I studied with daddy, the only other times that I saw the class go so deathly quiet were the times when he gave us one of his famous “jhars”!

The year was a lovely one. Daddy took us on a new journey of knowledge that was definitely not restricted to English. His classes were a comfortable mixture of studies, discussions, and pure ‘adda’. We did so many interesting things: from group discussions and debates to writing essays about the opposite gender (I remember one of the boys naming his essay “The world is a garden and girls are flowers”!).  Time flew, and before we knew it, class eight was over. At that time we were not too sad though, as we knew that we would be back in class nine in a matter of a few months.

Classes nine and ten were a slightly different story. Right from the beginning we could sense a more disciplined and serious approach from daddy. There was less fooling about and much more hard work. Yet, the classes were nothing if not pure joy. Daddy was always so fresh and vigorous, he never let boredom settle in. He somehow knew how to make even drab grammar practice interesting. I now understand how much of that freshness has to be forced, and what gargantuan effort goes into that demeanor. Under him, the batch sailed through the examinations. But that came later. Before that there was the last day of class. That is one day that I try not to recall, but since I am reminiscing, I might as well get it all out. It was a sad day. The entire class was subdued. Towards the last half hour, more than half the class had glistening eyes. I tried hard to keep calm, knowing how much daddy dislikes public show of weakness. But when the hour struck indicating the end of class, I could control myself no longer. I practically shot out of the class, ran upstairs and rushed into the bathroom to lock myself up and have a good cry. When I was done fifteen minutes later, I came out and went to the balcony. My friends were still there in the garden downstairs, sniffling while daddy petted them reassuringly. It was then that I realized the full import of the situation: we were done with the classes, and they would never really take place again.

Except that they did for me. I keep gate-crashing into daddy’s classes whenever I feel particularly nostalgic. Thank you daddy for letting me do that.

Till now I have just been talking about daddy’s profession. But to daddy, being a teacher is much more than just a means of livelihood. Some people are born to do certain things. Daddy was born a teacher. His encyclopaedic knowledge about almost everything under the sun is actually only a tiny part of his being a teacher. It is his personality that does a great deal of the teaching. Anybody who has been his student knows the kind of attention he gives to every individual student. Daddy once told me, a teacher may enjoy teaching a bright student, but his real skill and credit lies in how well he can explain and simplify matters to the weakest student in the class. And that is exactly what he does. Daddy insists that practicing what one preaches is a fundamental requirement for a teacher. And there again, daddy is spot on. He tries to teach so many values in his classes, but none that was utopian or impractical. He insists that punctuality is an essential habit, and he himself is never a minute late to class. He stresses on neatness and organization in one’s work, and he himself has never been anything but. In fact, it is because I have had daddy as a teacher that I maintain such high standards in my expectations of any teacher. Mostly the teachers that I have fall way short of my standards. For the same reasons, if I call somebody a good teacher, there are probably few higher compliments that I can pay him/her.

Yet, if I restrict myself to daddy’s classroom avatar, I would be doing him a gross injustice. As I said right at the start, learning has been a lifelong journey with daddy, and only a part of that has been done in the classroom. Daddy has been a teacher to me in a much wider sense: he has taught me how to live a good life. It is easy to gather information; there are endless sources that can give us more reading material than we would be able to finish in a lifetime. But to have a guide and mentor is a far greater thing indeed. I have found mine in daddy. Daddy has shown me the way to a happy, fulfilling life. He has taught me to be self-sufficient and yet sensitive to the sorrows and joys of those around me. He has taught me kindness and patience, and also the need for anger and violence. In spite of leading an unrewarding life himself in many ways, he has helped me keep faith in humanity when the going is rough. He has insisted that I learn from his failures as much as from his successes. He has never been afraid to admit that he can be wrong, that no man is infallible. He has maintained the need to earn people’s respect and not claim it merely as an advantage of one’s age all his life. He has shown me the beauty that there is in being a loner. But most importantly, he has taught me the meaning of love and belonging. There are few lessons in life that I can call greater than that.

Daddy has tried to teach all these to his students as well. His eternal sorrow lies in the fact that so few of them are willing to take all that he has to give to them. The few who realize the wealth that is waiting for them in the form of Sir learn their fill and lead better lives for it. I wish for daddy’s sake as much as for theirs that the number of such students were greater. Also, I wish he had not had to suffer all his life so much from girls. He has tried so hard to be a good teacher to everybody, but even more so to girls. Yet it is they who have gone on to cause so much pain to him. Why do they have to tell daddy that they love him when they do not mean one word of it? He often laments that he has never got anybody other than me whom he can love so wholly. Still, I know that I will probably never be able to be a Chandragupta to his Chanakya.

The best I can do is try.

The 'Great Books' of today

 Lately, I have been reading some of the latest best-selling ‘young-adult’ books that have created waves among the readers of our generation. They have brought up certain questions and observations in my mind, which unfortunately are in great contrast with the worldwide enthusiasm and praise that have been showered on these books.

Take the Hunger Games trilogy by Suzanne Collins for example. This I read on the raving recommendation of someone whose taste in books I used to admire. The series is set in a post-apocalyptic dystopian future where a totalitarian government formed by the rich upper class rules with an iron hand. The society is divided into ‘Districts’, each of which specialises in certain specific economic activities. Intermingling is not allowed, and while some of the districts which are closer to the ‘Capitol’, the city of the ruling class, receive favours and mild treatment, the majority of the populace lives in poverty and under varying degrees of tyranny of the local government officials. The most defining – and the most horrifying – aspect of the society is the ‘Hunger Games’: an annual ‘sporting event’ reminiscent of the Roman gladiatorial games in which one girl and one boy between the ages of twelve and eighteen are chosen from each of the twelve Districts to kill and survive the others until only one living winner arises in an arena designed and controlled by the Capitol. This event is held as an enduring punishment to the districts for a revolution that had been carried out against the Capitol during the early days of the formation of society. The story revolves around Katniss Everdeen, the girl ‘tribute’ from District Twelve and her male counterpart Peeta Mellark. As they both go through the Games, an astounding and dangerous twist in the Capitol’s plans occurs which makes another revolution imminent. Over the course of three books, we see the journey of emancipation of the people led by Katniss and her friends, as well as the development of the relationship between Katniss and Peeta.

After finishing this trilogy, I was disappointed, mainly because the person who had recommended it had led me to expect a lot more from it. The idea was interesting, and with a little more graceful handling of the characters and the language, the books would have been much more praise-worthy.

The series that I read next was the Divergent trilogy by Veronica Roth. This one was quite a disaster. To say that the plot was predictable would be a major understatement, and if one happens to read it while the Hunger Games are still fresh in one’s mind – as I did – one will be disgusted by the number of similarities between the two plots; Ms Roth can easily be blamed for plagiarism. This series too is based in a post apocalyptic world, not quite as dystopian as Panem of the Hunger Games, but still regimented in strict groups. At the age of sixteen, girls and boys take aptitude tests that help them decide which faction they want to belong to for the rest of their lives. At the risk of giving out spoilers, I cannot help but describe at least some of the glaring similarities with the HG series and the utter predictable-ness of the books.

·         As soon as the factions are described, it becomes obvious to the reader which faction the protagonist Beatrice Prior is going to choose, so the author’s attempt to build up an atmosphere of uncertainty becomes rather boring.

·         Beatrice shares an uncomfortably formal relation with her parents, which is eventually softened as the dangers of the world come to light and through tragedy, quite like Katniss and her hostile attitude towards her mother.

·         Both girls are special – Katniss is the ‘Mockingjay’, Beatrice is a Divergent, and this makes them leaders, though both are unwilling to step into their roles.

·         In both books, the protagonists suffer a number of ignoble defeats and setbacks before they manage to come into their own.

·         The fear landscapes of Divergent are uncannily reminiscent of the Games arena of HG.

·         In the war that builds up, certain factions gang up against the others, just as certain Districts fight in favour of the Capitol till almost the very end.

·         Beatrice’s love interest Tobias ‘Four’ Eaton can easily be replaced by Katniss’s childhood friend and eventual crush Gale.

·         Four is two years older than Beatrice, and the fuss that has been made about this two-year age gap is frankly ridiculous, and if this is what happens in American society today, I have to say we Indians traditionally have had a much healthier attitude towards such issues (though the American attitude has greatly affected today’s youngsters).

In fact, I was so disappointed in the Divergent series that after finishing the first two books in a hurry, I decided to give the final part a miss. Maybe at some point when I feel like some chick lit again, I will eventually get around to reading it. In fact, I must admit that the only reason that I went through book two was because I had a fleeting crush on the character Four, and once I was past that, the book seemed little better than childish action thrillers.

The last in my list of YA fiction was the current worldwide rage, The Fault in Our Stars by John Green. Generally, I steer clear of teenage romantic dramas, but everyone in my class seemed to be talking about it. Even one of my old friends from my previous school – who never read books before I introduced her to the Harry Potter series sometime in class nine – was gaga about it. I wanted to read it just to understand what it was that was sending the girls of my generation – and women much older, I hear – over the edge.

The book is about two young people who are suffering from cancer. The girl Hazel Grace is terminal and knows it. She gets into depression, is forced by her parents to join a cancer support group which she initially despises, but eventually meets another boy who was a cancer patient a year ago but is now certified ‘cancer-free’ by the doctors. This boy, Augustus Waters changes the world of Hazel Grace and of so many women readers’, apparently. For my part though, I find nothing exceptional about him. He is described to be handsome, yes, but then most protagonists in teen fictions are. People keep talking about the ‘Augustus Waters experience’, but I did not have one. I found him to be exactly what he is: a young boy with a poor taste in books and who is a video game addict and given to bombasting and philosophizing about weird and completely unnecessary things. In fact, the writing style of the book is something like that, but more about that later. Hazel Grace is completely taken up by a book called An Imperial Affliction, the gist of which seemed to me rather unfathomable, and I cannot for the world understand why anybody would be so greatly fond of it. She recommends it to Augustus, who promptly falls in love with it. Any charm that the character of Augustus could have held for me was irrevocably destroyed when Augustus sends a text message to Hazel something to the effect of “OMG please tell me what happens next!” while discussing the book with her. OMG? Really?!

Eventually the two set out for Amsterdam to meet the author of the said book, who turns out to be a pompous drunkard with a marked lack of civility. They visit The Anne Frank House where they finally realize and accept that they are in love. This part of the book was what interested me the most, as I could imagine myself moving inside the historic place, which I surely will one day. And I am pretty sure I already watched the videos of Anne Frank’s father and other Jews mentioned in the book during our workshop with AFH last year.

Later, Augustus acknowledges to Hazel that his cancer has metastasised all over his body, and he is about to die. Hazel continues to stand by him through his deterioration and eventual death. A few days before he passes, Augustus arranges for a pre-funeral, where his friends Hazel and Isaac, another cancer patient, read him eulogies where Hazel acknowledges her love for him. The book ends with Hazel making a surprising discovery which serves to increase her love for him. That’s about it.

It is an okay book, and there are many others like it. The people in the book are if not positively unlikable, then thoroughly ordinary. I will not make judgmental comments, because I believe that people who are at death’s door have the right to behave as they please so long as they are not disrupting social order. However, my question is why will others want to read about such behaviour? Now about the language of the book. I am one for refined language. It does not have to be flowery; however, consistent use of colloquial language does nothing to enhance the quality of the book. The book is written from the perspective of a typical American teenager, and their manner of speaking has been depicted, and reading about the dialogues and thoughts of a typical American teen (or a typical big city English-speaking teen anywhere around the world, to be fair) is not a very entertaining or educating experience. The thoughts expressed are often obscure, and I got the feeling that the author has made a poor attempt at being philosophical, something like in the book Sophie’s World. This book, people are saying, shows us human love and suffering. But those exact emotions have been explored and expressed with so much more depth and variety in A Tale of Two Cities, How Green was My Valley, The Grapes of Wrath, A Thousand Splendid Suns and scores of other books like them. So why this brouhaha about a chick lit?

After reading all these books, the real question that kept bothering me was the levels to which the general tastes of people have fallen. Many of those who are raving about these books have very likely not heard of the books that I mentioned, much less read them. Most will not want to read them, because reading and absorbing these books take so much toll on one’s mental and psychological capacities, unlike today’s young adult fictions. What is so saddening is that all that is called ‘great’ by today’s standards will never be able to hold a candle to the real classics, the really great books. Unfortunately, today’s sensation seeking ‘live-in-the-moment’ crowd had severely undermined the meaning of superlatives through gross overuse. Now, The Fault in our Stars is a great romance, just as Romeo and Juliet. A time will come, I suppose, when the John Greens and Stephanie Meyers will be replacing Shakespeare and Shaw in school and college syllabi. God-willing, I will be done with the education industry by then!