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. 

Vacationing in Kashmir

The first thing that I must confess about the Kashmir trip is that I had serious apprehensions about it, mostly because my end semester examinations were set to begin less than a week after I returned from the vacation. I grumbled for days before the trip, not even silently all the time. Every time dad mentioned the trip over the telephone, my thoughts turned to the examinations looming ahead. So it was with none of my usual holiday enthusiasm that I set off to Durgapur on the 7th of May. But thankfully, enthusiasm is contagious, and by the time we boarded the Sealdah Rajdhani Express from Durgapur station on the 8th, almost all thoughts of exams had flown out of my head.

We started the tour with torrential rain while waiting for our train. That was a Godsend and an instant mood lifter, because we had had a terribly hot and dry April with no sign of our usual Kalbaisakhi. So though this was not strictly speaking a part of our vacation, it was a welcome add-on, and definitely one of the highlights for me. The sight of the sky overcast with dark clouds, the gusty breeze bringing with it the smell of rain, and then the shower of cold water rushing down from the heavens – it was delightful. The train was on time, and we settled down comfortably for what is one of my favourite parts of any vacation. I honestly love train journeys. I love the steady rhythm of the coach, the bunk bed, the curtains of the AC two tier coaches, even the uncomfortably narrow alleyways. I love squinting through the windows to try and discern the dark landscapes outside. This is one of the things in which I differ greatly from dad, because he prefers the time saving aspect of air travel to long train journeys. This time though, we had a bit of both, so we were both happy.

Delhi has to be my second favourite city after Kolkata (I know, it is quite unfair saying this despite spending my first sixteen years in Durgapur: but Durgapur will always be home, so there!). The minute we stepped off the train onto New Delhi platform – after spending an interminably long time crossing the suburbs of the city; Rajdhani turned out to be no different from Darjeeling Mail in this respect – I had a wide-toothed grin plastered on my face, which I wiped out with much difficulty in honour of decorum. Akash Da had come to receive us at the station. We went in his car to Connaught Place, where we got some snacks for our lunch. Connaught Place is a much bigger, much cleaner and more posh version of Esplanade, and quite the dream ‘hanging out’ place for our generation. If you happen to be there, don’t forget to try out the Chicken Quiche from Wenger’s, it is absolutely divine. Many thanks Akash Da, for the snacks and for the lovely drive to the airport. I do wish we got to spend more time with you and Arundhuti Di. Next time, hopefully.

Delhi Airport is prettier to look at than Kolkata airport. But the prices of everything in every store go right through the roof. While exploring the airport we came across a piano that was playing by itself, only of course it wasn’t! There was a pendrive plugged in a secret USB socket, but the initial amazement and sense of magical music was beautiful. We almost missed the final boarding call to our plane which is quite surprising given how alert dad stays on such occasions. Ours was a GoAir flight in the usual Airbus A320. Though I had been on flights more than once already, I still got nervous at the takeoff. Thankfully this time the uncomfortable sensation of gravity drop was practically missing, and I even managed to take a quick snooze, a sign of how accustomed (and bored) I had already become with air travel.

We got the first grand view of the mountains from the plane windows. The grey sky and the mighty Pir Panjal range looming right across. It is an eerie feeling almost, flying above the great Himalayas, on top of the world in a quite literal sense. Landing in Srinagar Airport, the temperature drop was like cold fingers holding you in an embrace. We were picked up at the airport by Mushtaq Ji, who was our driver for the entire tour. A short drive from the airport, and we were at our hotel right over the Dal Lake. One of the first things that hit me on our way was the physical beauty of the Kashmiri people. This was something that I kept observing and wondering and being envious of throughout our trip. With the miracle of genetics to help them and the mix of handsome races like the Greeks and the Huns and suchlike, they have the potent features that make the heart beat faster at a single glance. There are distinctly fewer women on the roads, something that became even more obvious once we left Srinagar for the smaller tourist areas, and those who do come out do so in the company of other women and are usually covered all over except for their faces but my, what angelic faces! There were ten year old head turners, make what you will of that!

We spent the first three days in Srinagar. The first day we went for an evening Shikara ride on the Dal Lake. Evening though was only after eight, when the sun finally set. The lights from the houseboats lit up the lake such that the locals had named the area ‘Golden Lake’. This was a little after the peak hour for the Shikara owners, so we got the ride for a reasonable rate. The next day was off to Sonmarg. The two hour ride – with a short stop on the bank of the Indus on the way – was lovely. Initially there was quite a traffic jam till the outskirts of the city, but once that was crossed the traffic was mild. The views are spectacular; snow-capped mountains on one side and lush green forests on slopes of the other side. The specialty of Kashmir is that all the tourist locations we went to were essentially valley regions, so unlike in other hill stations I have visited, most of the drives were through plain lands with only the last bit being ascends up the mountains. That suited me just fine, because I got the mountain views without a hint of motion sickness from the winding mountain roads. Sonmarg is on the same route as Kargil, and seeing the signs on the roadside indicating distance to Kargil gave me goose bumps. It reminded me of all the soldiers who had travelled on these very roads during the bloody Kargil War, never to come back.

Sonmarg was initially a nice experience. We went up by a local car to a hill slope where snow had fallen. We crossed a fast flowing mountain stream and dad negotiated with the locals for a sledge right. The journey uphill is rather inhuman for them, as they make the tourists sit on the sledge and pull them up the steep slope. But these mountain folks are strong as mules everywhere, so some of them were practically running up with their burden. I half rode, half walked up, falling on my hands and knees several times, though the driver assured me that I was doing better than most women. Whoever thought walking on snow covered slopes was such hard work! I was red in the face and panting by the time I reached, and dad seemed fitter than I, his broken leg and all! The ride down was hair raising, for my driver, a young lad, went down at quite a speed in spite of my repeated requests to slow down. Mentally I went ‘wheee’ as we rushed down, bypassing other sledges and rock outcrops.  Afterwards, there was another drive to various tourist locations including a viewing of the Zojila pass and Balatal, and another clambering up on snowy slopes. I think I have had my fill of snow; I definitely prefer lush green mountains to the barren, freezing cover of ice. The return trip was somewhat dampened by a needless altercation with the local car rental owners, who claimed a higher charge than the one settled on. Later we found out that Sonmarg is called ‘Lootmarg’ by Kashmiris because they make a habit of such dirty tactics with tourists. If you are planning a trip there, give Sonmarg a miss. You won’t lose out on much if you are travelling to Gulmarg and Pahalgam.

The next day was a local sightseeing in Srinagar. We first went for a Shikara ride in the morning. This ride was longer, and our boatman took us through the watery lanes and by lanes of their floating village, showing us their art emporiums and the homes of the locals and their small fields of crops, all on the lake itself. Afterwards, we started our drive with a visit to the Shankaracharya temple on a hilltop. This was not something I was overly keen on; I am not particularly religious and I generally tend to avoid holy places. My annoyance was aggravated because we had to leave our phones and wallets and belts and watches and anything made of leather in our car. Such superstitions turn me off, and in any case having to clutch on to your trousers all the time is rather unpleasant. Plus, there is a climb of two hundred stairs up to the temple, so not very easy on bad knees. Once up there though, the view is breathtaking. The entire Dal Lake can be seen, with large swathes covered by a colony of houseboats. It is reminiscent of a usual city on land, but not quite the same thing. Dad and I did not enter the temple; taking in the scenery from up there was enough for us. Afterwards it was the Mughal Gardens – Chashma Shahi, Shalimar Bagh and Nishat Bagh in that order. My favourite was the Shalimar Bagh with its many different levels almost of water channels, each more towards the interior than the previous one. At one resting place in between the channels, there was a Kashmiri man playing his flute. The haunting notes carrying over the water takes you back to the times when the Mughal emperor Jahangir must have strolled in the gardens in his leisure with his beloved wife Nur Jahan. Shalimar Bagh is used as a water park by the locals; we saw many young boys and even a group of girls splashing about in the fountains and running up and down the channels. One even slipped and fell hard on her backside right in the middle of the stream, to an ensuing peal of laughter from her friends. It was in the Mughal gardens that I managed to capture the exquisite pictures of flowers in full bloom. More power to my Lenovo phone camera! After a quick lunch it was the Hazratbal Mosque. It is supposed to house a hair of the Prophet Muhammad, and so is considered ‘Medina’ by Muslims. The dome is beautiful, but I was miffed at not being allowed to enter the main prayer hall of the mosque, as is the rule for women in all mosques. And so grows my disaffection for religious centres of most religions for one reason or the other. Ah well.

The next day we left for Gulmarg, where we stayed for a night. Another lovely drive of a couple hours, and we had reached Gulmarg. Now this was undoubtedly the best part of the trip for me. I fell in love with the place the moment I set eyes on it. The green vales, the lush mountains, the bloom of tiny wild flowers on the slopes (hence the name Gulmarg, ‘gul’ means flowers), it was lovely. We had a small but cozy room in Hotel Fluorescent, with a spectacular view from our window overlooking a narrow mountain stream and a coniferous forest. Gulmarg is famous for its cable car ride up to snow covered mountains – they call the cable cars ‘gondolas’. But I do not like rope-ways, I suffer from claustrophobia and vertigo at the same time, and in any case there was a queue of a thousand people at least, so dad and I gave the ride a miss. Instead we walked down the roads and up the grassy slopes. Later, we had a Kashmiri Wazwan dish for lunch, a special Kashmiri pulao, and that frankly was one of the only two times we had good meat during our trip (the other was sheek kabab at a shopping arcade in Srinagar, opposite Nishat Bag). It is a shame that a horde of Marwari and Gujarati tourists have influenced most restaurants into turning vegetarian, and the meat that is served is usually rather bland, or at least they were in the hotels that we stayed in. So if you want to make a gastronomic affair out of your trip, ask for original Kashmiri dishes only. The sky was overcast by the time we had finished lunch. We took a horse ride back to our hotel across the meadows and on rocky mountain pathways. The horses are ponies, but my, what tough creatures! They wanted to gallop, and were quite annoyed because they had to trot with us on their backs! The locals have a saying, that Mumbai’s fashion and Gulmarg’s mausam (weather) are both unpredictable and change without warning. It started raining on our way back, and dad and I both got rather wet, and a little while longer and we would have started freezing! But we reached the hotel just before the rains got too heavy, thank heavens! After an hour long shower it was bright sunshine again. We went for a walk up the road leading to a place called Khilanmarg, and then back again down to the valley for a cup of Kashmiri kehwa, black tea infused with saffron and lots of sugar, and then back to the hotel to call it a day.

The next morning we were off to Pahalgam, and truth be told I was rather sad to leave Gulmarg. This time it was a long drive, five hours almost. Pahalgam is on the banks of the olive coloured Lidder river, a little way from Anantnag, the birthplace of many insurgencies. On our way we passed through apple orchards on both sides of the road, and the trees stood bare because this is not the season for apples. Our hotel was right at the start of the market road of Pahalgam, with a large car park and horse stand just across the road. After settling into the hotel we went for a walk, crossing the bridge and dodging horse owners all the way. Honestly, it gets to be a little annoying after a point when you have to refuse a horse ride offer every two steps. Dad jokingly said that they were more surprised than anything to see us walk around though we were not foreigners. And indeed all the time we went for walks in Pahalgam as well as in Gulmarg, I did not notice any Indian tourist who walked. This is very sad because people miss out on the real flavours of the place by constantly moving around in cars. You need to walk around to really learn about a place, especially in the mountains. We spent two nights in Pahalgam, so the next day was kept for local sightseeing. We hired a local car for this, and we went to three locations – Aru valley, Betaab valley and Chandanwari. Aru valley is all greenery in really freezing temperatures. Betaab valley has been turned into a park where the locals visit in great numbers, and Chandanwari is the beginning of the holy trek to Amarnath. Of these my favourite was the great expanse of the Betaab Valley. The rains chased us through the journey, and by the time we were done in the evening, I was quite tired. Here I have to make a special mention of our rather dashing driver for the day, Manzoor Bhai. He and I struck up quite a friendship and chatted throughout the journey. He even showed me how to write my name in Arabic, and my, is it beautiful! It is a pity I forgot to take a picture with him. Back to the hotel and a quick nap later dad and I went out for a walk up the horse route. Looking back, I realise how much we walked on our trip, a commendable feat especially with dad’s leg! All of it was lovely of course, but I just wish it didn’t cause dad so much pain.

The next morning we left Pahalgam and drove back to Srinagar for the last day of the vacation. It was quite a long ride, especially since Mushtaq Ji was going really slow that day. By this time I was tired and ready to go home. So the last evening in Srinagar was a quiet one with just some shopping and a last walk down the boulevard before turning in for the night. We had to be up by three thirty next morning and reach the airport by five. Srinagar airport overdoes it with the frisking and security checks. I have lost count of how many times we were stopped for checks, but I was relieved when we finally boarded the plane because that meant we were no longer being treated as would be terrorists! It was an uneventful flight that I spent sleeping, and very soon we were back in Delhi. The moment we got off the flight, the heat hit us like a solid wall. Some people were still wearing their jackets (!) and mentally I was screaming at them to take those off already. Thankfully we got an Ola cab without a hassle, which dropped us at a hotel in Paharganj where we had booked a room till the evening. Akash da dropped by once again during his lunch break, and by four we were in the station, waiting for our train. Another train ride and we were back home. A lovely trip without many untoward incidents, and we were refreshed and ready to get back to our routines.

Kashmir is beautiful, breathtaking even. But there is something I must mention, even though the locals will hate me for it. Now that I have been there, I feel that the ‘paradise on earth’ hype is a little overrated. I have been to many other Himalayan locales that are equally breathtaking. It is unfair that Kashmir should hog all the limelight when it comes to the grandeur and the beauty of the Himalayas. We had gone at the beginning of the peak tourist season, so we literally saw the tourist traffic surge in front of our eyes. There were distinctly more people on the day we left than when we had arrived there. The people of Kashmir seemed to be nice, kindly folks, who made an effort to make tourists feel welcome. It is sad to think of how the political clashes between two countries have ruined the lives of these people. Someday, I hope to go back there again, and next time I am going straight to Gulmarg and staying put for a couple of days at least. I am so glad I went on this trip, examinations notwithstanding. 

The Jungle Book

I have often felt that there are movies, and then there are Disney movies. Those people at the Walt Disney Company seem to bring magic to whatever project they take on, even if it is just producing. Their latest, director Jon Favreau’s adaptation of Rudyard Kipling’s classic tale The Jungle Book definitely works to validate their reputation as magicians.

The tale of the little boy abandoned in the Indian jungles and brought up by a pack of wolves is synonymous with childhood, or should be. I remember my parents telling me the story when I was a little child, bringing alive all the characters until I could almost pretend that the animals were my own dearest friends. Later, I spent many delightful afternoons watching Disney’s earlier adaptation of the tale on TV over and over again. So when I chanced upon a poster of the latest movie adaptation of the tale, I made a beeline for the theatre the very day the film was released here, this last Friday.

Directed by Jon Favreau and released in 3D format, the movie is a feast for the senses. This was also the first time that I watched a movie in 3D, and it was a rewarding experience. The only time I had watched a 3D piece was at Science City, the science and technology park in Kolkata. There the 3D effect is such that the characters seem to jump out of the screen towards the viewer. That can get quite unnerving at times, especially since the piece I viewed there had mice jumping out and an enormous snake opening its jaws at the audience. But here the third dimension was shown inside the screen, almost as if the screen were a hollow tube in the direction opposite to the audience. The sense of depth did much to add to the beauty and real feel of the movie. All the time I was watching the movie, I almost felt like I was in the jungles myself, running about with Mowgli down the long stretches of dense undergrowth.

I must admit – shamefacedly – that I do not remember the original story by Kipling in detail. But that I think has helped me be less critical of the discrepancies between the story and the movie, because frankly that does not matter. What does matter is the way you are swept off your feet and whisked into Mowgli’s world from the very opening scene. The camera follows Mowgli’s route as he competes with the wolf cubs in a race with Bagheera the black panther training him to become more ‘wolf’. Right from the start one feels Mowgli’s anguish, his desperate attempts to fit in to the world of the wolves, to give up all his ‘man-ness’. He is frustrated when he is refused entry to the wolf council and watches from afar as the council repeats its vows about ‘the law of the jungle’. The movie follows a linear narrative, right from the time of the great drought and the ‘Water Truce’ at the Peace Rock where all the animals gather around and drink together. Hunting is forbidden because water is more important than food. It is there that one first encounters Sher Khan, the great Bengal tiger, the one creature that every animal in the jungle fears, that even Akela, the mighty leader of the wolf pack does not challenge if he can help it. He is despised by the jungle community for his wanton cruelty, his tendencies of hunting for pleasure. But Sher Khan himself has a deep seated hatred for man, ever since one man – Mowgli’s father, as we later learn – burnt his face with fire and blinded his left eye. He is hell bent on killing Mowgli, and vows to take the man cub’s life once the rains return and the Water Truce ends. This puts the pack in a dilemma, which Mowgli himself relieves them of by promising to go back to the man-village from whence he came. Accompanied by Bagheera he sets off on his journey home, and here his adventures begin.

There is a chase sequence just afterwards where Bagheera senses Sher Khan’s presence in an open stretch of tall grass and manages to warn Mowgli mere seconds before the tiger leaps onto them with a blood curdling roar. That sequence first made me realize exactly how good the animation really was; I had completely forgotten that the animals were just computer generated cartoons and not flesh and blood creatures, and I flinched at how narrow an escape Mowgli had from Sher Khan. The sense of reality was further enhanced in the subsequent sequence of Mowgli escaping with the help of a herd of Nilgai running down a muddy ravine. The brilliance of the cinematographer Bill Pope is captured beautifully in a scene where a few drops of water get splashed on the screen from the hooves of the Nilgai, adding to the sense of urgency and danger. At no time does the movie exude a false sense of comfort and security, despite being a children’s feel good production. There is a sequence of a landslide caused due to the heavy rains that brings down an entire face of the cliff, washing off the Nilgai and Mowgli to the swirling river below, a reminder of exactly how dangerous the Indian jungles actually are for all its inhabitants.

The story of Mowgli’s childhood where he first hears of the ‘Red Flower’ of the humans that destroys everything it touches is told by Kaa the python while she hypnotises Mowgli and tries to crush him in her deadly embrace, just to be saved in time by Baloo the bear. It is an interesting touch to change the python’s gender, and personally I feel that this is somehow more apt; Kaa is almost the femme fatale, the siren whose attraction is irresistible to man. Only I wish they had included that one line so synonymous with the great snake – ‘Look at me, come to me!’ I remember being terrified and fascinated at the same time as a child of that one line that had even held Baloo hypnotized in the original tale.

Baloo the bear is a sweetheart; the epitome of sloth who usually had others get his honey for him but eventually climbed a steep rock face and fought a monkey pack to save  little Mowgli. Baloo encourages Mowgli to stop worrying about becoming a wolf and embrace his ‘man-ness’. He convinces Mowgli that there is nothing wrong with his little ‘tricks’ that Bagheera so detests; that in fact it is the ‘Mowgli way’ of doing things. It is those tricks that Mowgli uses to gather honey for Baloo, and eventually even rescues a baby elephant from a trap set by the human, an act that astonishes his friends and gains him the respect of the mighty elephants, the lords of the jungle.

In the meantime, Sher Khan kills Akela and terrorizes the wolf pack, waiting for Mowgli to return so that he can kill the man cub. Baloo and Bagheera both keep this news from Mowgli, but when Mowgli is kidnapped by the ‘Bandar-log’ and taken to their king, King Louie the Gigantopithecus, the large ape tells him of Akela’s death while trying to coerce the secret of the Red Flower from Mowgli, which he thinks will make him like the humans. Baloo and Bagheera manage to fight the monkey hordes off, and King Louie dies when the old structure of his palace collapses on him, but Mowgli already sets off to avenge Akela. He steals fire from the village nearby and runs back to the pack, starting a jungle fire behind him. There the final battle of the animals against the evil tiger is hair raising just as it is beautiful. Eventually Mowgli manages to kill Sher Khan using one of his tricks, this time encouraged by Bagheera himself to fight the tiger like a man and not a wolf. The movie ends with the same shot as the opening scene; of a race between Mowgli and his brothers and the panther, only this time Mowgli wins by his tricks which are now an accepted part of his identity. There is a sense of closure, the coming of a full circle, where Mowgli has now truly become a part of the jungle community with all his uniqueness, his man-ness. As the narrator, Bagheera ends with the wondering pronouncement of how he had never seen all the animals of the jungle come together before as they had done in the destruction of Sher Khan, the bane of the jungle.

The one thing that struck me was the extent of power and ability in the human voice. All the animals, all the computer generated characters were brought to life, were given emotions and personality merely through the voices of talented actors. Rakhsha, the mother wolf was voiced by Lupita Nyong’o, and she brought the quiet dignity and strength and fierce motherhood to the wolf who had taken the man cub in as one of her own. Bagheera, voiced by Ben Kingsley exuded power and self restraint and love and companionship and even the occasional subdued humour. The wonderful Bill Murray voiced Baloo the bear, and no one could have brought out the character of the happy go lucky bear who lived life his own way and could die for his friends without a second thought better than him. The lovely Scarlett Johansson as Kaa had a bit role with no more than a few minutes’ of dialogue, but she was a fantastic selection with her sultry voice that was irresistible even as it oozed danger. Christopher Walken voicing King Louie the Gigantopithecus was comic even in his hostility and positively scary demeanour. And Idris Elba as Sher Khan was just phenomenal. That a man could bring so much hatred and power and pure evil into a cartoon with just his voice has to be seen to be believed. The director deserves applause for just his selection of actors to voice the characters if nothing else.

Twelve year old newcomer Neel Sethi as Mowgli is an appropriate casting selection. He brings in energy and charm even as his demeanour truly speaks of a boy brought up among the animals. What is commendable is how natural his acting is, especially since all the talking he does is essentially to himself on set. He had to imagine all the characters that he was addressing, and he does that beautifully. But unfortunately for him it is his imaginary co-stars who really steal the spotlight, making him look a little like a supporting artist.   

There is one little thing that I cannot help but mention, not as criticism but just as a bit of harmless humour for my fellow Indian moviegoers – the Westerners do make a terrible mess of pronouncing our words. They have managed not to distort most of the Indian words too badly, but watch out for their pronunciation of ‘Baloo’ and ‘Bandar-log’. It will definitely make you giggle a little

The Jungle Book is a tale of joy and laughter, of tears and pain, of love, of companionship, of adventure, of acceptance. It is wonderful how a good author or a skilled director can pack in so many flavours of adult life in a tale that is ostensibly for children. Do watch the movie, in the movie theatre if you can. The big screen and the 3D effect will really make a difference. And do you children a favour and take them along. You will be gifting them a lovely memory of childhood that they will look back upon for years to come. 

Young Historians' Symposium 2016

Everybody living in India who has not been living under a rock for the past few weeks knows that a great debate has been raging about anti-nationalism and sedition, which had its birthplace in JNU university with the arrest of their Student’s Union president Kanhaiya Kumar. Unsurprisingly, students at Jadavpur University have stood up in solidarity with those demanding the release of Kanhaiya Kumar, and as a result the campus has been rife with discord and disharmony. In fact, students have become so preoccupied with the issue at hand that another landmark event has been nearly overshadowed. The department of history organized the first student’s seminar held over two days. This is remarkable not only because it was the brainchild of undergraduate students and organized by themselves, but also because I overheard out head of the Department comment that such a large-scale seminar is not even organized by the department of history in JNU, the most elite university of the country.

It gives me immense pleasure to claim that the Young Historians’ Symposium – as the seminar has been named by common consensus – was a success, and the response was remarkable given that it was the first time such a seminar was being organized by the department. Held over the 16th and 17th of February, we had paper presentations by students from various departments and institutions, and a debate to end with on the last day. Though it was nowhere near a full house, the audience that was present was still significant, especially since attendance was not compulsory. The kind of hard work and preparation put in by the participants was commendable. But I will come to this in a bit. For me, the success of the seminar brings pleasure on a deeper level. It is a sign of the enthusiasm and dedication of the students of the department, and the loyalty and love we have for our department despite the endless barrage of complaints and frustrations each one of us vents about it every day. The Economics department has been organizing their own students’ seminar for a number of years now, and the International Relations department also has numerous seminars each year. So it is good and right that the department of history should catch up in this regard, not least because it is a matter of departmental prestige and pride.

I remember the first day we heard about the seminar. It must have been some time in October, or was it November? My friends and I were lazing about, as we do, after classes ended, when I suddenly got a call from a senior asking us to join a delegation from the department that was headed to the vice-chancellor’s office for a meeting. We had no idea what this was about, but the prospect sounded exciting, and ever since Hok kolorob visiting the VC en masse has became a statement of protest, an expression of independence in the minds of many, so we joined the group without much ado. On the way we managed to squeeze some information out of those in the know: a departmental seminar was to be organized in February in Gandhi Bhavan, one of the auditorium halls in the university, and we were going to request (read coerce!) the VC into allowing us a waiver on the hall charges for the seminar. That sounded exciting, and I think mentally many of us prepared for a shouting match of sorts. That turned out to be completely unnecessary though, because the VC was happy to oblige. Mr. Suranjan Das, our present vice-chancellor, is himself a historian by qualification, and as soon as he heard our request he called up the exchequer and got us the required waiver. “Amar i department, eta kore dao” or something along those lines over the phone, and it was done. Thus the foundation was laid.

For much of the last months of 2015 and throughout early 2016, the seminar was on the top of a lot of peoples’ minds. The idea had first been proposed by some students of the third year, and naturally they were the most closely involved. Since my friends and I have quite a rapport with some of them, we used to hear first hand news about the progress made and the obstacles faced by them. As is the case in every group, some people work themselves weary, others sit and enjoy the fruit. Those in the former category happen to be my friends, so I often heard them fuming about the attitude of classmates and others involved, the tendency to upstage each other and the unfairness shown by those in power. Hearing them talk about their troubles, I often wondered why they bothered to take so much responsibility in the first place, especially since it was such a thankless task most of the time. But I suppose some people cannot help it; they just have to keep at it, no matter what.

Formal meetings about the seminar started taking place sometime in late October. Very few people from the first year were present. Nobody seemed interested in getting involved. The standard excuse was “We are just going to watch this year.” Be that as it may, a couple people, myself included, volunteered. In the first meeting the volunteers were appointed to specific committees. I was made part of the fund-raising committee. Somebody joked that I was now to be the official beggar of the class, chasing everyone for money for the seminar! There were about a dozen committees to begin with, ranging from abstract collection and report-writing to sponsorship and collaboration and food committees. More were added in later meetings – our HOD decided that a separate committee was required for serving tea during breaks! – and afterwards I was also made a member of the ‘flying squad’ to be in charge of the law and order situation during the seminar. Not that I had to do anything on the seminar days! But it was fun having my name on paper!

The bit that I remember most clearly about that first meeting was the debate over what the seminar was going to be called. This was after the professors had left. The students gathered around in a tight circle and suggestions started flowing. There was more fooling around than anything else, but the common consensus was that the name should not be a repetition of the seminar names used by any other department, and also state clearly that this was an initiative of the history department. ‘Young Historians’ was almost agreed upon, but ‘Meet’ was clichéd, and so were some of the other terms suggested. Eventually the gathering broke up and the discussion was carried on to the Facebook page started for the seminar. Travelling to Durgapur the next morning, the word ‘Symposium’ occurred to me. I suggested it on Facebook, and everybody liked it. So now I can claim with some pride that the seminar organized by the department has been named by me (though I try not to strut too much about it: this was a joint effort and my contribution was minuscule).

I will not be going into the details of every single meeting; though all of them are a perfect mixture of exciting and hilarious in my mind, it will be a tedious narrative for the readers. Suffice it to say that we met a number of times over the next couple of months, and though I did not have much to offer during the meetings myself, I found it interesting to keep updated on the progress made in terms of paper submission and collaboration with other universities and arrangement of sponsorship and things like that. The one down side of the seminar though was that the seniors became really busy with all the preparations and could spare almost no time at all to hang out with us. I enjoy spending time with them, and so I missed that.

And then, and then! Finally it was February the 16th. Actually, my friends and I had been all hyper for days before D-Day, planning out our attires to the minutest details (girls will be girls!). I must admit somewhat shamefacedly that on 16th I spent more time in front of the mirror dolling up than I usually do in a month. I was there at the venue by ten in the morning. A handful of the seniors had stayed back on campus the previous night to get things ready. It had been a busy night for them with little sleep, but my, did they look handsome that morning! Or maybe it was just me; all that departmental pride and loyalty was getting projected on the organizers. Anyway, we were soon inside the hall, and made ourselves comfortable in a nice shadowy corner. I had been given the responsibility to hand out food coupons to my classmates, but apart from that I had little to do, so I could very well concentrate on the seminar.

On the first day there were three technical sessions, on local and regional history, state and warfare in history and society and culture from pre-modernity to modernity. There were five speakers in each session chaired by various professors of our department and other universities too. From the first session, my favourite paper was one on the cultural and religious elements in the making of Vishnupur in 17th century Bengal by two students of our department. The speakers were eloquent and delivered well-researched papers, and even had pictures to display at the end of the session. The speaker who eventually went on to win the Best Paper Presentation award was also from this session, a student from the Department of Sociology from Presidency University, who spoke the connections of the goddess Kali and the naming of the city ‘Kolkata’. Another very interesting paper was also delivered by a student from the same department, titled ‘The evolution of wrong: on the question of moral turpitude among the peoples of Bengal’. Though this paper was, unsurprisingly, more on the lines of a sociological discourse on gender roles in terms of the creation of various taboos in the Bengali society, it was a well thought-out presentation and very interesting.

The next session, following a tea break where we were provided with food packets from the cake shop Mio Amore (a sponsorship that involved a lot of running from pillar to post, or so I hear), was the one on military history, and I must confess that I was not paying a lot attention during this. But the one paper that I listened to and found interesting was on non-state armed groups and their potential as state builders. The final session of the day was after yet another break, and this one was important for us, because we had a classmate presenting a paper in this session. Anwit Shahi from first year presented a paper titled ‘Protestant ideologies and statecraft – Ashoka’s Buddhism and Henry VIII’s Anglicanism’. He was wonderful, and this also happened to be the paper most understandable to the students of UG1 since the subject was close to what we have already studied. Apart from Anwit, there was also Anupam Da from the second year who presented a paper on cricket in colonial India, which was a hit among sports enthusiasts.

That was where the first day ended. We went home tired but happy, though some of us got caught up in the protest that had been organized in solidarity with JNU that evening. Anyway, on to the next day. There were two technical sessions on the 17th, the first on environment, economy and society, and the next on women’s studies. I got caught up with some work at home that day, and so I arrived late and missed out on the sessions. I did not however miss the lunch box provided that day. This again calls for praise to the seniors, some of whom themselves handled the entire arrangements right from shopping for rations to distributing the boxes for nearly three hundred people. Post lunch, there was the debate – Dialectic – and the motion proposed by the house was ‘Donald Trump is a product of American racism, just as Hitler was a product of German anti-semitism’. Two of my classmates – Manami Mondal and Annewesa Ghosh spoke against the motion, and both were very good. It was an interesting debate, and the coordinators did their job wonderfully. Eventually the majority of the audience as well as the judges seemed to be of the opinion that the arguments of the defender teams were stronger than the opposition. It was a fitting wrapping up of the seminar.

All those months of preparation and anticipation, and it was over in forty eight hours! But they were a wonderful forty eight hours, and already I cannot wait for the seminar to happen again next year. The students of the department hope to make this an annual event, as with the Economics department seminar. Next time round, I hope to be able to take a more active part in the business of organizing the seminar. This time, my participation had been token at best. The one regret that I have is not being able to present a paper this time. This was because of some miscommunication towards the beginning, as I was under the impression that members of any committee were not allowed to present papers. When I found out I could in fact present one, there were hardly seven days left until the deadline. So next time I am most definitely presenting a paper; and now that I have a year to decide and work on a topic, there will be no dearth of time.

The contribution of the third year students was phenomenal, as it was they who did practically everything, right from coming up with the idea of the seminar. Dipro da and Vishal da deserve a special mention – they looked after almost every aspect of the seminar. Of course were many others too, whom I would have mentioned by name if I knew them! As it is, the JU Young Historians’ Symposium is now a reality, and will, God willing, continue to take place every year and benefit students of every batch to come. To think that we were there at the start!...just suppose I come to attend one fifty years later?

Anwit being challenged with questions

Dialectic - Annewesa speaking

YHS 2016 professors and volunteers

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. 

Go Set a Watchman

The first time I read To Kill a Mockingbird, I was in primary school. I was around the same age as Scout Finch and nearly as naïve, but that did not stop me from enjoying the flavour of the prose. The book left a strong impression on me, and I knew that I had just read a great book even if I did not know exactly what made it great. It was only after I reread the book first driven by nostalgia and then because it was part of my syllabus in high school that I came to appreciate the various shades and nuances of life and human nature portrayed by the author. It has been one of my favourite books ever since I first read it, and I am certain that I will learn to appreciate it at ever greater depth as I grow older; but I do not mean to discuss TKAM here. I finished reading the much-hyped so-called sequel, Go Set a Watchman, a short while ago, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

Much has already been written about this new book by Harper Lee; it has been widely reviewed and critiqued. The general consensus in the literary world seems to be that the book should have been left unpublished, as the author seems to have wanted to do all along. Though originally publicized by the media as a sequel to TKAM, it turns out that the script of GSAW was actually written a few years before TKAM, and Lee was encouraged by the publisher she saw about GSAW to work on the flashback scenes and childhood anecdotes mentioned in GSAW, which eventually led to the creation of the hugely popular American classic To Kill a Mockingbird. Lee herself refers to GSAW as merely”a pretty decent effort”, and I tend to agree. Having said that though, I would also like to point out that I find much of the scandalised outrage and wrath that the book has incurred greatly exaggerated and unnecessary and even unfair. I will justify my opinion in a bit.

The book starts with a train ride as Jean Louis “Scout” Finch returns from New York to her hometown Maycomb, a small town in Alabama. Jean Louis works in New York, and is on leave to visit her family and friends back home. “Family” is her father Atticus Finch, a lawyer struck by a bad case of arthritis, her uptight, prudish Aunt Alexandra and  her eccentric but lovable Uncle Jack. We are told that her older brother Jem had died of a heart failure a few years earlier, and Calpurnia, the black woman who had kept house and brought up the two Finch children was now too old to work and had been retired for some time. Then there is the boyfriend, Henry “Hank” Clinton, a childhood friend who has grown up under Atticus’s care and tutelage. Right from the beginning Jean Louis is keenly aware of the changes that her home town has been undergoing over the years. The activities of the NAACP (National Association for the Advancement of Coloured People) and the subsequent change in the status of the coloured folks of the town has changed the atmosphere of the place. Jean Louis finds a pamphlet titled ‘The Black Plague’ in her house and follows her father and Hank to a Citizens’ Council meeting. There she sees Atticus introduce a man who then goes on to give a hate-speech laced with racial discrimination and hatred of the coloured community. The revelation that her father, the man that she has held to be the most fair and just person in her life, is really a racist, prejudiced individual shocks and traumatizes her. She tries to put her head around the entire scenario, but eventually goes on to have a hysterical breakdown. She screams at Hank and blames him for supporting racial prejudices. When he tells her that he is forced to do a lot of things that he does not necessarily enjoy doing just to be able to fit into society and keep his place, she remains unimpressed and angrily declares that she will never marry him. She turns around to leave only to find her father standing there smiling at her. He asks her to talk to him but she ends up insulting him bitterly. She goes to Uncle Jack for solace and advice, and he tries to tell her that Atticus hasn’t suddenly become racist, but is acting the way he is because he feels that the central government’s involvement in federal matters will be detrimental to the south. She also visits Calpurnia, who she has looked up to as a mother figure all her life, but is treated formally and coldly by her, making her realize how much relationships have soured up between white and coloured people. Jean Louis is shattered and scarred and decides to leave Maycomb for good, and is on the point of leaving when Uncle Jack returns and forces her to confront the issues on her mind. Jean Louis finds that she can now think about the events of the previous two days without breaking down, and Uncle Jack says that this is because she is now her own person and does not depend upon her father for everything. She has developed an individual conscience and can now treat her father as a man rather than a god who is always right. The book ends with Jean Louis apologizing to Atticus, who assures her that he is actually very proud of her, and she confesses that she loves him very much.

The language of the book, the style of writing are as lucid and engrossing as Mockingbird. Like TKAM, I found that the words have a flow that grips you and makes you carry on reading till you reach the conclusion. However, so little actually happens in a book that is nearly 300 pages long that you cannot help feeling more than a little disappointed, especially since you know how very rich in content the author’s other book is. Jean Louis is no longer referred to by her childhood nickname, Scout, and this sets the somber mood of the book. Fifty pages into the narrative I was already inwardly grumbling about the dark undercurrents and general air of gloom. TKAM was in no way a trivial, shallow writing; in fact it probably dealt with a greater plethora of serious subjects than the current book, and was a wider study of human nature, yet it had a feel-good factor to it that is completely missing in Watchman. Maybe that is in tune with the fact that Watchman deals exclusively with an adult world which sadly lacks the innate cheerfulness and innocence of childhood portrayed in Mockingbird.

The best bits of the novel are undoubtedly the parts where Jean Louis reminisces about various childhood memories with her brother and their childhood best mate Charles Baker Harris, or “Dill”. My pet peeve about this novel is the elimination of Jem, who was definitely one of my favourite characters from Mockingbird. The images that Jean Louis looks back to from her childhood all recall better times, which made me sad. It is unfortunate how human beings always look back wistfully to that which is gone, essentially because that which is is not satisfactory enough. I also found the character of Hank to be quite annoying. This bit I cannot fully justify, maybe because my dislike was instinctive and perhaps not even wholly reasonable. I found his strong desire to ‘fit in’ quite distasteful, as well as his tendency to want to hold Jean Louis back in Maycomb just because he wants to make a home there. But this may well be because I am not a very romantic person myself and don’t much understand the nuances of romantic love and belonging. All said, I was rather sadistically happy at Jean Louis’s decision not to marry Hank after all.

Coming to Atticus’s character: this is where all the uproar and indignation and controversy arises. The Atticus of Mockingbird seems to be an entirely different person than the man described here. The Atticus that the children knew growing up was very much the moral compass of Maycomb. Here, we see him as a rickety old man with a pronouncedly racist mindset, who looks down at coloured folks as lesser humans as yet not civilized enough to deserve full economic and political rights. This is a very strange and somewhat frightening revelation, to think that a man can change so much over time. What may be an even scarier thought is that he had been this way all along, and just happened to be a marvelous actor who hid his true nature from those who were closest to him all through their growing up years. I find this quite hard to believe though, and so I feel that it is essential to read Watchman without being too influenced by the characterizations of Mockingbird. On a personal note, the last time I read Mockingbird, I found myself a little disenchanted with Atticus. He was a wonderful man, a little too wonderful and perfect to be real. I dislike human beings who try to come across as perfect, and I felt that that was what he did at times. I do not believe such perfection is real, and I feel that being good and fair can sometimes be stretched too far (those who have read the book may recall the incident with Mrs Dubose, where I felt Atticus was downright cruel to Jem in his attempt to be fair to the old lady: but this is a debate for some other time). As such, I feel that the Atticus of Watchman is more real. He is far from perfect, and his faults are quite objectionable, but at least he comes across as more honest. I prefer an honestly imperfect man to a human masquerading as a ’god’ any day.

I must say I was rather disappointed with the way the character of Jean Louis has been portrayed here. It is true that finding out unpleasant truths about those you hold dearest to you is a painful thing. But the manner in which she handles such revelations is very immature and unpleasant. She screams and cries and throws tantrums and eventually has to be slapped to come back to her senses. That is certainly not the way for a woman in her mid-twenties to handle rough situations. Jean Louis uses crass language at her father, once again showing that in some ways she has failed to grow up after all. After a point, the reader stops empathizing with her and begins to feel annoyed and irritated at her naivete.

It is important to remember that Watchman was actually written before TKAM, even though the timeline of the events puts it up as a sequel of the latter. It was from the script of GSAW that the characters and setting and events of TKAM developed, and fructified into the magnificent piece of literature that it is. GSAW was the author’s first attempt at writing a novel, and it is should treated as such. It is important that the two books be read as separate novels altogether, in spite of the fact that to understand the various allusions and personal relations mentions in Watchman well one needs have read Mockingbird already. Reading the two books as unconnected narratives would ensure that the characters of Mockingbird are not undervalued or looked at cynically. Mockingbird by itself will remain a great American classic, and that should have nothing to do with Watchman, which is nowhere near that pitch of literary finesse.    

The conclusion I have reached is that Watchman is a decent read, but if you do plan on reading it, make sure you can look at it as an entirely separate narrative from Mockingbird, that in no way affects the quality or worth of the latter. If you cannot, give GSAW a miss. Mockingbird is one of those books that one should not die without reading; Watchman should have been left to repose in the author’s memories as her first attempt at writing, unknown to the world.

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.