Saturday, November 24, 2007

Anatomy of a Bong

No, this is not about the pipes used for smoking narcotic substances. So, read no further if you misinterpreted the title (I guess anyone could be mistaken. No one I know, but still, we make allowances, we are tolerant.)

The Bengali (Bong, for short) has been widely caricatured in Hindi movies (Of course, not as widely as the Madrasi- a member of the populace which lives south of the Vindhyas. No Malayalees or Tamilians, just Madrasis. Strangely enough, Madras is not even the valid name of a city anymore). The Bengali is a portly, paan-chewing, philosophy-spewing, jovial, lotus-eater, rather incidental to the storyline and introduced primarily for comic relief, which his hilarious accent and very Bong intonations are intended to bring about. As with most stereotypes, this picture is somewhat incomplete.

Now, I assume that you are eager to know the distinguishing features of Bongs, in case you ever encounter one and find yourself at a crippling loss for words, (which is fine, for during most of the conversation you won’t be able to get in a word edgeways) and wish you had spent more time learning about Bongs than you wasted on your loved ones. Never fear, I always champion worthless causes. See, being a Bong myself, I can poke fun at them. You on the other hand have no such privilege, so do arrange your facial expression to one of dignified neutrality- which means you can’t snicker, in the event that I pull off this intended humorous piece. Well, here’s the lowdown on Bongs:

We love food: And food loves us, which explains our ever expanding girth (Corpulence is a sign of opulence, is what we console ourselves with). Of course, a Bong’s culinary preference starts and ends with macher jhol (curried fish). All Bongs eulogize their mothers’ macher jhol. Secret family recipes are handed down from generation to generation and stored in a vault with the family jewels. Imagine a lawyer reading out the will of a rich, recently deceased Bong- “To my eldest son I bequeath the estate worth a gazillion dollars. To my younger son, I leave the family recipe of the macher jhol”. You would think that the eldest son would rejoice and the younger one would curse his fate. Au contraire, people would have to work like beavers to console the crestfallen eldest son and the younger one’s happiness would know no bounds. I bet wars were fought over macher jhol. Bongs tend to be touchy about fish, which would make me a faux Bong. When I tell a Bong about my impeccable record of staunch vegetarianism, he/she does the Ally McBeal eye-popping and jaw-dropping routine. What? No fish? My mother still cries silently into the night, pained about my affliction and prays for full recovery. If a Bong ever takes you out for a treat (which will be seldom) or invites you home, do not turn down the invitation, come what may. You will have the most exquisite, lavish food of your life. Bongs don’t believe in skimping when it comes to food and even the most scrooge-like Bong will turn generous in a restaurant.

We love sports: I think an amendment is due here. We love watching sports, or khela. We have seen every game, know every little detail, every little trivia about every sport, but mostly cricket and football. We know the history of cricket and football, right from the days they were conceived. Again, I’m only a farzi (fraudulent) Bong. I’ve only recently been able to distinguish between Test and one-day cricket and only after India’s twenty-twenty victory have I realized that normal cricket matches are fifty overs long. My knowledge of football is limited to the fact that a ball is kicked around by some men and the point of the game is to kick the ball into a netted thingy. A conversation between a real Bong and me would go thus:

R.B: So, what do you think of David Beckham’s move to L.A?

J.D: David Beckham? Is he related to Victoria Beckham, a.k.a Posh Spice of Spice Girls fame?

R.B: (going on, regardless of my ignoramus status. Turns out, R.B just wanted to show off his own sharp observations) I think….


We love politics: The Bong is a very political animal. He will know even about the most obscure regional parties. He will tell you exactly why someone should win or lose the general elections and will brook no difference of opinion. He will become tremendously hot under the collars while discussing politics and hold a lifelong grudge against you if you don’t support his political party. The homegrown Bong will extol Jyoti Basu and the rest of the reds. How the Commies have managed to stay in power in the state of West Bengal is a mystery, since Bongs are acutely aware of class distinctions and would uphold them at any cost, something contrary to communist ideologies. The Bong will tell you why India is going to the dogs and sit back smugly with an I-told-you-so every time his dire predictions come true and they generally do come true. The Bong will be a Machiavelli in the office arena and get away with playing politics, given his rotund face (it’s been scientifically proven that people trust round faces more easily than other face types).

We love culture: We love books, music and films. Bongs start quoting Nietzsche, Dostoevsky, Kafka etc at a very early age. Name a book and they have read it. Ask them something as innocuous as “Who are you?” and they will tell you what deconstructionists, post-modernists and so on theorize. Music means Robindro Songeet, every thing else is noise or distraction. Uttam Kumar was the greatest actor that ever lived. Bongs watch films which are scarcely heard of and will look at you askance if you don’t recognize a film from Kazakhstan which won an award in East Timor. Bengalis are a proud community and will name a Bong of consequence in every field. For instance, say you are discussing a particular enzyme produced by the Dominican Republican sea-gherkin. The Bong will name a third cousin who has a doctorate in the field. Bongs like to think, dream and articulate their ideas, which brings us to their next trait.

We love to talk: The Bong institution of adda has been immortalized in a Manna De song. The word adda has no English or Hindi equivalent that would do justice to this great Bong pastime. The word conversation would suffice, but even as I write “conversation”, the potency of adda is diluted. Bongs simply love to talk. What do they talk about? They talk about any of their aforementioned passions. They will catch hold of hapless pizza delivery guys and advise them on ways to improve the efficiency of their deliveries. They will discuss art with the fellow they just met on the bus or train. They will discuss politics with the taxi driver. The Bong’s milkman, postman etc have all been at one point blessed by the Bong’s verbal largesse. When two Bongs meet, their conversation could fill the pages of the Encyclopedia Britannica and still go strong. They go to great lengths to make their addas gratifying. There’s almost always food, comfy cushions, sometimes alcohol but always a profusion of words.


I know that I stand an excellent chance of being disowned by my own family and being ex-communicated, after this blog. But, I hope some community will adopt me with my vegetarian credentials. Any takers?

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Noxious Vapours


See, I’m mostly quite a docile ewe-lamb. I shy away from conflicts. I let myself be bilked of a coupla bucks (without so much as a whimper), by crooks of autowallahs who shrug “Chutta nahi hai” (No change, to the uninitiated) when I hand them more than the fare money. I don’t wish a pox on the house of the #$%&* who steps on my toes while squeezing his way to his seat in the theatre, without so much as a quiver of a lip in my direction, by way of an apology. I don’t even protest when a generously endowed middle-aged woman, barrels right through me in a crowded public bus and takes the seat I had been politely waiting for a nice, old gentleman to vacate. But, I do draw the line at being rudely roused from the rare, fortuitous nice dream I may happen to have. I mostly have incredibly dull dreams, so you’ll understand my annoyance at being woken up before it could get…er, interesting.

There I was, dancing with Hugh Jackman(of X-men fame, without the hideous Wolverine sideburns, of course. Sheesh, what do you take me for?), to the tango theme from Scent of a woman; dancing the slow, sweet tango (suitably altered for a “U” certificate. I’m an incorrigible prude, you know). See, it doesn’t matter if you are snorting now because you think Hugh and I can’t dance. That was my dream and this is my blogspot, so shut your yapper. (And please, please, please read on). And pop! went my dream. (Oh, Hugh don’t go!).

It is one thing to be woken up by the invigorating smell of freshly brewed coffee and quite another to be shaken awake from your R.E.M sleep by cigarette smoke. I knew the perpetrator of this egregious crime. It was the grungy fella who lives in the apartment below mine- his teeth bearing tell-tale nicotine stains. I rubbed my eyes, no not in disbelief, but because that’s what people do when they wake up (Geez!) and because my pupils were dilating. The blasted fellow had the gall to smoke at 6. am. 6 a.m., no less. I sleep with my windows open (I’m a fresh air fiend, so sue me) having become wise to carbon-di-oxide (or was it carbon monoxide from burning lamps? Why take a chance, anyway? Di- , mono- , are the same to me) poisoning very early in life. So the smoke had found its way out of Grungy’s windows, up one floor, in through my windows and into my unsuspecting nostrils. Dear God, can’t a girl get her eight hours of shut-eye without needing a gas-mask?

While still on smoking, what gives? Discerning, intelligent, educated adults fall prey to a cigarette’s smoky, seductive charms. You would think that the frightening consequences of smoking cigarettes (cancer, emphysema, hypertension, to name a few) would sufficiently deter would-be smokers and impel present smokers to quit. But we vertical walkers, the most rational beings on this planet need to be warned by messages- “Statutory warning- Cigarette smoking is injurious to health.” An amoeba has better survival instincts. Those mute, lower life forms know which animal of prey or plant to stay away from. I’m rather attached to my healthy lungs, so do feel free to enlighten me if I don’t understand why cigarettes are cool. It’s like being the only one not in on an inside joke. What am I missing here? Why do people think it’s alright to smoke in public places when passive smoking kills more people than actual smoking does? What right do they have to treat someone else’s life so cheaply?

Why pay the big tobacco companies your hard-earned money to slowly poison yourself to death? Here, I’ll do it for free.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

The break-up song.

It's by Sarah Brightman and from an Andrew Llyod Weber musical, Song and Dance.

Don't write a letter when you want to leave
Don't call me at 3 a.m. from a friend's apartment
I'd like to choose how I hear the news
Take me to a park that's covered with trees
Tell me on a Sunday please

Let me down easy
No big song and dance
No long faces, no long looks
No deep conversation
I know the way we should spend that day
Take me to a zoo that's got chimpanzees
Tell me on a Sunday please

Don't want to know who's to blame
It won't help knowing
Don't want to fight day and night
Bad enough you're going
Don't leave in silence with no word at all
Don't get drunk and slam the door
That's no way to end this
I know how I want you to say goodbye
Find a circus ring with a flying trapeze
Tell me on a Sunday please

Don't want to fight day and night
Bad enough you're going
Don't leave in silence with no word at all
Don't get drunk and slam the door
That's no way to end this
I know how I want you to say goodbye

Don't run off in the pouring rain
Don't call me as they call your plane
Take the hurt out of all the pain
Take me to a park that's covered with trees
Tell me on a Sunday please.

MOVING ON...

Right. They (they, again!) say that there are five stages of grief- denial, anger, bargaining (the grieving person may make bargains with the powers that be, asking, "If I do this, will you take away the pain?"), depression and acceptance. I would like to think that I’ve gone through them in fast-forward mode- something I do with annoying, fit-for-rickshaws songs in a DVD. I would like to follow the unscrupulous Scarlett O’Hara- I’ll not think about it now. I’ll think about it tomorrow when it doesn’t hurt so much. I would like to think that acceptance has come, suspiciously prematurely, but is here to stay. Acceptance, not resignation, mind you. The world moves on and so must I. I would like to think that this newly revived hope will float.

To kill a mockingbird is my favourite book on earth. And Atticus Finch my favourite character(only after Scout, of course). And he helps me again in this dark hour, like he had ages ago. He refuses to be trumped by pessimism and strives to trounce Luck and Fate and Destiny. He does not agree with me. Well, I’ll admit that the ramblings of the previous post were dark and sulky- but I’m coping. This too shall pass. And as for Atticus, well, I have this- You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view, until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it. Besides, it’s rather creepy to have one’s parents adopt the expression of people visiting the terminally ill. It’s sheer selfishness to put them through this, to drag them in your misery. So, I put an end to this once and for all. The show must go on.

I tried, but I failed and that’s that. I’ll let Rudyard Kipling sum it up for me:

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those impostors just the same.
(If you can )watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it.


Amen.

"I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do."
- Atticus Finch to Jem Finch (To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee)

Sunday, November 18, 2007

SHIT HAPPENED…..

It’s like losing a child. Actually, that was a singularly insensitive statement. It cannot possibly be commensurate to a mother’s grief on losing a beloved child. But how do you measure the pain when all your dreams come crashing down? What is an appropriate analogy? May be being impaled by a dull knife, twisted by an invisible hand? Or being two inches away from the finishing line and having the line pulled farther away from you? You are bludgeoned by Reality. Your sense of self worth crushed to nothing, watching all your ambitions become impossibilities. The tantalizing reality becomes a distant dream- an illusion that you had about your capabilities. When you told yourself, “I can”, you merely lied to yourself- a lie which cost you dearly.

You are told that hard-work and dedication are all that are required for achieving your goals. But no-one talks about the X-factor. I wish I knew what that was. Whose propaganda was it? Who taught you to dream? Who gave you hopes? Ha, but you did it yourself. You were the one who invested your blood, sweat and tears. You could have taken the easy way. No one else impelled you to take this step. You are a big girl. Surely, you should have known what you were doing? You gave it life, nurtured it, watched it flourish and Poof, saw it being snuffed out in one, quick motion- as spontaneously as you had gambled. Ever heard of hedging your position? Ha, fool. What price all the fuss?

So shit happened. It has been happening for the last two years. Not that I mind- I am enlightened about ying- yang. There is balance in the world, they say. They must know. Most cocky sayings have been attributed to “they”, after all. Sure, give me eighty percent of the shit in the world- hell, I feel masochistic, give me the whole hog. But I wouldn’t mind it so much if it were interspersed with non-shit, once in a while. If there is balance in the world, why don’t the scales ever tip in my favour?

Ah, but that is life. C’est la vie. They nod wisely (And yes, let’s not forget Que sera, sera. We don’t want to be accused of playing favourites). Clichés,all. Designed to make you more fatalistic, to explain away all the shit, to make you feel all noble and forged in the righteous fire of glorified suffering- like the saints burned at stake. Hell, I ought to be Beatified. Makes you hate life even more, doesn’t it? Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you. All this is supposed to make you stronger, build character (although, I doubt if anyone spouting the virtues of suffering ever felt so much as a pin-prick) or effect something equally abstract, that none ever understands or attains. Of course, that doesn’t stop them from advocating misery for character building.

That was just a dream, just a dream, just a dream...dream.

P.S- Quite a departure, from my usual non-Saturnine self. Oh, well.