THE CULTURE OF EATING

It’s a disgusting and noisome face of human culture you have to interact with even if you abhor. It’s the culture of ‘eating’. Once a wise and witty friend of mine, having invited me for a dinner introduced me to a family friend of his saying that his friend belonged to a cultured lot of the elite subclass of northern part of Calcutta. I could measure the expansion of chest his friend was subjecting himself to on endorphins being released. After the gentleman had left our proximity, my friend said with a wink, ‘Its pisiculture.’ This culture of eating and talking and discussing about food at exorbitant lengths is a human development we see at the end of the twentieth century. It’s quite difficult to pinpoint at which juncture of time the human race had inherited such deviation but it is for certain that till seventies we could hardly find such people in the gathering. If found, so looked down upon, that the heat could easily be felt by them.

BREAKFAST (from wikimedia commons)

As the end of twentieth century approached, people became more and more interested in themselves, thinking little about others. It was only the self that mattered. Their concern encircled around the self, their own likings, their own habits and even their own dreams. So it was only ‘self’ that existed. Reading habits narrowed depending upon ones necessity, extracurricular activities did exist but only those which were essential to ones growth. As human being stretched their endurance, little did they know that only the physical endurance was being put to test not the endurance of their heart or soul. It’s the heart in the brain I am talking about, not the heart in chest cavity the doctors talk of. This unknown heart in the brain gives you patience, love and compassion for others. All these three are literally on their way to extinction. So more you find gatherings, even of the thinking class, more there is food in it. It’s not the food of thought Tagore or Ray or Bergman used to enjoy. It’s the food in its true sense. More they eat, more they talk about food, only about food, of different types of food. They hate discussing books, about films, about the present day politics. So when you decide to have your entry with a story about something in print, you are looked down upon, so much so that you end up in a shameful exit. They are giant eaters and you will be surprised to know that they keep discussing food even when their stomachs are full. And this is one thing you will always fail in.

BACK TO SQUARE ONE. WHERE ARE WE HEADING?

The human race had begun its life with four things for sure. Anger, Hunger, Fear and Desire were ample to start with. As time raced by, the race became aware that there were much more to explore and exploit. Shedding their primitive cocoon they started their journey toward a golden era of knowledge, culture, perseverance, humanity and love. Anger has little value was taught to the human kind by two wars in the twentieth century. It was India which miraculously escaped its wrath. So it came to know very little of anger. And now it believes ‘anger’ to be a smart man’s ornamentation. Heroes in celluloid preach younger generation to be angry men.

Love for good food having pleasant flavour was always a cultured gentleman’s attaché. But to be infatuated to food is a domain of those who are not well versed in their culture. If you are aware of the root meaning of the word ‘infatuation’, I will sleep well having conveyed what I wanted to mean. It’s origin in Latin means ‘make foolish’.

                                                

Fear had always been a man’s companion. From worshiping wind, fire, water and sun at what juncture of time man had turned to invisible god, they themselves don’t know. Then rose the faculty of ‘reasoning’ which rejuvenated the human seat of thinking, ‘the cerebrum’. ‘Fear’ took a backseat making way for ‘love’. And when there was love, ‘desire’ morphed bringing in a chaste human class. Here too I would prefer to refer to the Latin origin of the word ‘chaste’ which means ‘morally pure’.

Where is all that love gone from the human heart? It is anger which has taken its toll. More the ‘educated’ super star of films play ‘angry young man’, nearer we move   square one. Man has lost his good taste. Its ‘eating’ which now is eating the human culture.  If you believe in natural cycles of ‘time’, then may be its time for the human race to end its state of affair and succumb to death. It’s more pertinent to call it a death of the soul than to stamp it as a rotten flesh and blood. Let the human class perish before they experience sexual desires on open streets

KNOW INDIA

KNOW INDIA is a new passion in this blog which shares knowledge about places I have visited and what I learned from them. A little bit of unusual information, may be which is hard to find in the internet, will not be a boring read I believe. A photograph on the right is available for reference. Any how, if it encourages you to move your feet with a rucksack on, it will be my pleasure.

Inlay work is a form of decorative craft where artisans directed by artists or by themselves cut out grooves on a piece of base and pack-in a similar shaped object of contrast colour to beautify. The surface of the inserted object is so finely flushed that it looks a single piece when glanced at. Pietra dura is a form of inlay work where stones of different colours are packed into cutouts in marble. The outline of the design was first drawn on the polished marble with help of vegetable dye Henna. The photograph on the right is of a wall from Taj Mahal at Agra in India as seen in 2009. It is a piece of onlay work bordered by Pietra dura. In Taj Mahal (universally termed as the 'f'inest' form from the Muslim architecture) the inlays were engraved with precious and semiprecious stones in abundance. Pietra dura can be found in almost all the walls of Taj making it one of the very few monuments where 'symmetry' had been of prime importance while designing. It took twenty-two (1631-1653) years to build Taj with approximately 22000 workers involved in erecting it under the leadership of principal architect Lahouri. And now it is Mr. P.N Oak's turn to disclose that this unique mausoleum contains 22 rooms comprising a Hindu temple below its basement belonging to Raja Jai Singh. Not less than twenty-five types of stones from Cornelian,
Lapis lazuli, Agate, Garnet, Jasper, Sapphire, Chrysolite, Heliotrope were used as a decorative and reflective material. Most of these stones had been removed and stolen by a class of animal called 'Homo sapiens' or human beings. Now, only a few stones reflect light as often demonstrated by tourist-guides at Taj. In last thirty five years or so as I have noticed, Taj has turned its colour from bright white to dull yellow (mostly due to pollution from sulphur). The inlay in the Persian term is called Parchin Kari while the onlay is called Munabbat Kari. While looking at Taj as a whole or at the walls it becomes imminent that much sweat was drained in maintaining extra precision in symmetry. Taj is synonymous with the word 'symmetry'. I am not aware of any other monument of such vast dimension as of Taj Mahal which can boast of calculations made keeping a close eye on every 'yard' of precision. To the students of mathematics, its a mathematical delight to enjoy. Look at the walls, the floor, the garden, the roof, the tomb- its precision and symmetry at every corner. The onlays and the inlays reflect only a part of it. The free flowing nature of the design in inlay is reflective of the serenity prevalent in Paradise while the opalescent, highly polished onlays depicting fruits, flowers etc add to the very meaning of it. It must not be forgotten that each flower here is an uncut one, with many of them carrying even a handful of earth conveying the very meaning that life still exits on the Makrana marble. The flowers, the fruits, the trees chiseled on marble clearly shows that Shah Jahan's court had well versed, educated European  botanists and herbalists. Safavid models as found in15th century miniature paintings are thoughtfully represented while outlining the Munabbat Kari. There is a divine sense of delicacy prevalent in each floral motif as they are laid down on marble from one slab to the other, in every corner of Taj. Tulip, Iris, Lily, Narcissus all seem to be at their height of bloom delivering a sense of  poetic  aura as  found in  Wordsworth's  writings. One very thing tourists do not know that Taj was not wholly built on marble. The basic structure is of brick on which the marble slabs were laid down. Imagine the amount of load it dissipates.

Tagore and Shillong
How abased a poet should be to be pregnant with thoughts others have not even dreamt of? Too small is my imagination to answer this question. But some places remain connected with a litterateur’s  life eternally as Highlands with Keats, Shilaidaha with Tagore, kolkata with Jibanananda. Whereas; there are some places which gave a poet a reclusive insight into life’s innermost domain and the society it has to bear with it. Shillong in Meghalaya, India is one such place of inexhaustible beauty which enthused Rabindranath Tagore to give birth to ‘Raktakarabi’ a play which reflects the life we lead today. The house on the right is one from Bishnupur, a quiet locality in Shillong where Tagore stayed from April to June in 1923 and penned ‘Raktakarabi’ and a collection of poems called ‘Shillong-er chithi’. Next time you visit Shillong, take an oath before you board a train, that you pay a visit to this place, just not to  respect Tagore but for another oath to read ‘Raktakarabi’ to realise how a dog’s  life you are leading in this mechanised world of Information Techonology.

Memories, Mongpoo, Maitreyi and the Maestro 

Maitreyi Devi not having penned “Mongpo-te Rabindranath” (eng. Tagore’s days at Mongpo), I am quite certain the common Bengalee literati would have forgotten Tagore’s memorable days at the Cinchona plantation. This little remembered hamlet is about a fifty- kilometre drive from Siliguri. A place remotely cornered, heavily guarded by foliage in the jungles in district of Darjeeling, Mongpo is unscathed by footfalls, mechanised cars and cigarette packets.  Maitreyi Devi’s husband Dr.Manmohan Sen was in charge of British India’s lucrative cinchona plantation at Mongpo and Maitreyi had invited Tagore more than once (especially between 1938-1940) requesting his thoughts to be bared, some even on the office note books of the factory. Dr. Sen’s official residence lies across factory gates and now an indiscreet bust of Tagore overlooks the beautiful garden. The small, tidy bungalow allows nature to pierce through its innumerable glass panes where Tagore had once rested on a couch that still exist. Just at the end of the portico on the left; lies the very private enclosure restricted by glass walls on two sides, here silence prevails even now as if the bard is still nurturing his imaginations to flow down his pen. This enclosure is adorned by the presence of a writing desk and a chair, designed by the poet himself, his faculty fine crafted by his son Rathindranath. Rathindranath’s mastery in wood work is well known and it enhances the aesthetics of this bungalow. A bamboo work of pen stand is emblazoned with Tagore’s drawings. A heavily purported wooden aisle lies beside Tagore’s medicine box containing some still fresh Homeopathy medicines. Tagore himself had designed his bed whose backrest rises heavily against its frame in a rather odd fashion. This was likely as a remedy towards the respiratory distress he withstood during his last decade. This bed is kept in the adjacent room. A visit to this place whispers that nothing had changed here in spite of the tree just behind the house, which Tagore had lovingly named ‘Saptaparni’, growing enormously spreading its arms for the last fifty years or so. How lucky the present generation is who would plan trips in noisy automobiles to this offbeat destination never even realising how tedious and difficult and time consuming it was in unfurnished palanquins in those days to travel from the plains of Siliguri. Mr Sisir Routh who now upkeeps this house feels proud when he mentions that his father Bhimlal was one of those palanquin bearers who attended Tagore during the trips to Mongpo.

Metamorphosing Superhuman

This carnival in India after goddess Durga is a mega event in last quarter of the year. It was scheduled in second week of October in 2013 while in 2014 this is little ahead from September 30th to the 4th of October. This relief brings in brisk gossips and planning over hot cups of Darjeeling tea even at street corners, Americans can hardly dream of. Durga, her two sons and two daughters, all Goddesses indeed, lay siege to my country for five long days literally closing schools, offices, financial institutions and even kitchens at homes. Those who can’t afford their daily intakes seek shelter in drains and darker areas of city, making them invisible for the fun of the rest.  This festive mood is not that new. Artefacts dating 1^st century B.C. from Chandraketugarh in state of West Bengal, India, enlightens a few rich visitors to Metropolitan Museum (http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/works-of-art/1990.281) at New York. But I am not sure how many from Bengal have experienced this excavated piece of exquisitely crafted terracotta Durga from Shunga period of Indian art. Artefacts of Durga, carbon dated more than 9000 years, are inviting recently more serious fun for full-time researchers. If this worshipping is further linked to epic Mahabharata there may be astronomical work still left to be done by the new age historians and archeologists (http://www.hinduism.co.za/oldest.htm). .

           

            There has been a paradigm shift from individuals worshipping at residences dating thousands of years back, to public interest in praying before idols in open spaces in well decorated, preferably biodegradable makeshift covers, for the last hundred years. The shape, the size and even the mood of this goddess has changed substantially. The carnival is of prime importance these days when business comes up and individual pockets and the exchequer have to be cared. But still, innovations exist. Massive, monumental installation arts flourish undisturbed by extremely disciplined large-volume crowds in tens of thousands who may look very uncanny. At one moment you keep thinking how the hell these people cared less to express anger even when pulled, thrown and jostled. The installations called pandals raise awareness in fundamentals like education, health, socialism and even in common sense. These are masterly, very large, lavish installation arts waiting to be dismantled and destroyed after five days. They are often made by untrained, unknown, ill-fed people, you rarely would imagine of. But each one of them, what little it may be, will make you watch and think in awe. Every piece of art brings you a message, socially agreeable, mutually acceptable, free from vulgarity as you often don't find in Rio’s gatherings with which it was recently compared with. Calcutta still firmly exhibits gentlemanly humane behaviour in public places. It’s astonishing to find so many people in so many places displaying concerted, concerned behaviour in their views through their piece of art that too with great humility. But they care little to bring in more attention and revenue beating their drums in international arenas. 

            But the gist was too sharp to be missed. In a sparsely decorated but not perfunctory platform, I found Durga erected placidly with her ten arms spread and annotated with ten words Siksha (Education), Swanirvar (Independent), Gyan (Knowledge), Subichar (Justice), Suraksha (Safety), Sasthya (Health), Dakshata (Training),  Sanman (Respect), Adhikar (Rights) and Sadhinata (Freedom).

It came out like the last paragraph in a fable. This was the beginning of metamorphosis. More are such meaningful changes away from religiosity, more chances of peaceable coexistence. I could hear a paean in the air. 

           

A NO MAN'S LAND IN 2009

My little island country, an atoll, situated south of Pacific is nearly out of reach of any other human habitation. It was a beckon with surprisingly clear blue sky, coral blue waters, uninterrupted green vegetation looking like the small of the back and busy urban backdrops highlighted with skyscrapers. The buildings have nearly reached  heaven but the human mind has not. This land has changed so much that I too often fail to appreciate why and how. Being abandoned with my thoughts and rusticated by the authorities I have taken shelter in a dilapidated rotunda high in the hills, scarcely reached by my fellow countrymen. What are they, my authorities, doing there down below, I looked from the hills. The flags fluttering high on the turrets have changed colours, bolt from the blue to black. The last election held some twenty years back brought about radical changes in my country. The poor man's party who got themselves elected, promulgated a law making every person's identity documented in a single name irrespective of the economic obesity they enjoy. They said, "No more struggle among the classes." As the class burden was removed, the government decided to nomenclature human beings with a uniform title, "Hooligan". Everyone since then was being known as 'Hooligan'. After someone had pointed out the meaning of the word, the head of the state  asked  his subordinate ministers to withdraw  all  dictionaries from the  country together with the man who pointed out the meaning. Thus one great  problem was solved, marking the era as " The great depression of the country."  After the dictionaries disappeared, the authorities brought out tens of millions of copies of a new dictionary containing a new meaning of the word 'Hooligan'. They said 'Hooligan' is 'Hooli' + 'Gan'. 'Gan' is a vernacular word meaning, 'the tribe'. They said, "Our fellow countrymen have originated from a tribe called 'Hooli' who descended from a rare intelligent group from the east."  As confusion arose in finding the proper  person, men and women henceforth were called as 'Hooligan the tailor from fifty-second street' and so forth. Such large were the names that  it  took away valuable time  and people became lazy  like those in the poor third world states.  The king then rose on the podium  after a year of completion of his tenure, delivering a speech  which made  him 'The second great man.' He said, 'Country of the Hooligans, by the Hooligans, for the Hooligans, let us rise and show the world that we too can do it.'  But he didn't say what to do. None asked him 'what to  do.' and the days passed by.

But what do I see today? Flags have turned blue to black. The whole population is out on the streets, with cheerful outbursts. Colourful grafiftis, joy in every one's face and music in every heart. I can't believe what I see. I just can't believe. Let me have my binoculars on. Oh my God, what do I see? Are they the same Hooligans turning the slogans on? Where did they get those black costumes and black flags?

Suddenly I remembered, there is a foolish hermit who stays next to my broken house, right inside the caves. He too was boycotted by the authorities for his idiotic deeds. Truly a fool indeed. He still should be remembering 'Goopy Gayen and Bagha Bayen.', Ray's film. Does he have that pinch of drug when blown by the wind changes the whole lot of human population. Let me try that pinch. Let the whole generation change for good. Not just a change by changing their clothes.

HINDU MAHASABHA

Politics had never been or will be a clean man's domain. Even if you debate on this, time after time it has been  ascertained that whoever honest had joined this field had one time or the other been maliciously proved an outcast or debarred.  Two names Subhas Chandra Bose and Sri Lal Bahadur Sashtri, I believe, are suffice to speak the truth. And if you look at to-day's political scenario in Bengal, there is no dearth of example to speak in favour of my statement. For reasons best known to them, even as late as December 2009 someone has raised questions about Dr.Shyama Prashad Mukerjee's cause of death in 1953. Though the Government of India declared his death to be a natural one, no inquiry was held based on the fact why Sri.Mukerjee was administered Penicillin (death caused by allergic reaction to Penicillin) in spite of  Mukerjee intimating the doctor that he was allergic to the drug. His death in the valley of Kashmir still remains a mystery. Here is a rare photograph of Dr.Shyama Prashad Mukerjee, the gentle giant, at the 26th session of All India Hindu Mahasabha held at Bilaspur on Sunday, the 24 December, 1944. To Sri Mukherjee's right is seen Smt Latika Lahiri, the only lady in this photograph. To Smt Lahiri's right is her husband, a medical doctor, Phanindra Mohan Lahiri.

FROM THE OLD BOOK SHOP series I

A bibliophile's heart lies in OLD BOOK SHOP. As the number of serious reader declines, the classics become less affordable. Its indirectly proportional, I learned. During my visits to various cities on a holiday, I always find some time to visit low-profile, shabbily decorated old book shops situated at rather awkward places away from the tourist destinations. And believe in me, I am and I will be rewarded at all such visits. The books I have with me now is surely a book-borrower's (who never return books after finishing them) envy. You will be surprised to know the price I paid for each of them. Many of them are one-twentieth of the recent price but yes, with a bit of compromise (dust filled, rotten covers, defaced pages are only a few of them to enjoy). If you are eager to know the names of my innumerable second wives, I will not deprive you.

1. VAN GOGH Life and Work by Dieter Beaujean published by konemann from bonner strasse, Cologne. The English translation was published in 2000 and has 96 pages in total with an excellent collection of Vincent's drawings in colour. Its a book from a  series called 'art in hand' and is a significant reading for those  not from the field of art. The chapters chosen are so dedicated and scientifically laid down one after the other that a single read will provide you with the basics of Van Gog's life. 'Encounter with impressionism' and 'What makes Van Gogh' are the two chapters which employ scientific views and rationality in explaining the science and arts of  this ill-fated master painter. When you are buying an art book filled with paintings the pages of the book must be of good quality glossy art paper to reflect the true value of the pictures. This book though a small one fulfills this criteria. It contains some rare pieces of art not much seen in other costly VanGogh books like, line drawing of 'Dr Gatchet in death bed' (1890), Etching of 'Dr Gatchet' (1890), 'Iris' (1889) and a half -page print of 'Potato eaters' (1885) which is of no less importance than VanGogh's 'Sunflower'. 'Potato eaters' reflect Van Gogh's darkest moments of thought and is to me the penultimate drawing which one must appreciate in understanding how different he was from others. His charcoal sketch 'The long walk (Avenue) (1874) is one such important inclusion away from his oil colours.

2. TRIO by W. Somerset Maugham is a collection of three stories brought out by William Heinemann Ltd. The three stories are 'The Verger', 'Mr Know-all' and 'Sanatorium'. Mere luck brought me a first edition of this book published in1950. This 145-page book contains three short stories together with their screen plays. One must start with the stories ending with the film-script. Maugham's interplay of free flowing words, his subtle analysis of human behaviour  and  when these two turns into a film, is a thing to note in this book. Those who have a fascination for good films and for those who appreciate the value of a good script when at par with a good literature, this book is a God's gift. I came to know from this book that Maugham also wrote cinema scripts together with R.C.Sherriff and Noel Langley in those days.

3. LANDMARKS OF  THE WORLD'S ART is one series of book which we all had dreamed of  owning since our adolescent days. It is a costly book in hardcover and is meant for a library and never to be a part of personal collection from my economical stature. Its an excellent, authentic book containing verified data from history. It is published by Paul Hamlyn, London. Presently this second hand old book is selling at a price of approximately Rs 1100 (Indian currency) from Antiqbook. I remember buying this book at Rs 100 in 2006 from an old book shop at Gariahata at Calcutta. One of the books in this series 'THE ORIENTAL WORLD' is written by two knowledgeable persons Jeannine Auboyer, Chief Curator,Musee Guimet, Paris and Roger Goepper, Director of the museum of Far Eastern Antiques in Cologne. It contains 228 illustrations of which 112 in full color. This book is in two  parts as 'India and south-east Asia' and 'China, korea and Japan'. Dividing Oriental Art in two definite parts imply that the writers are masters in their own field. This book was published in 1967 and never came up later. A flow chart of ruling dynasties at the beginning of the book helps the reader to follow the development of art in the Eastern world. Now rare, photographs from some Ajanta panels is book owner's envy. These panels of fresco seco are missing from Ajanta caves in  Maharashtra, India.

LAHIRI'S SELECT POEMS

What is being referred to here is obviously a book of poems, there is no feeling of uncertainty about it. The impromptu question that arises, who this 'Lahiri' is?  I will try to clear the doubts. Mr.S.K Lahiri long back in early twentieth century wished to keep alive his father Babu Ramtanu Lahiri's (1813-1898) memory. So he gifted the copyright of his book to University of Calcutta with the idea that the University will raise two gold medals from the fund arising from the sales of this book. These two were named as 'Lahiri medals' to be awarded to, two highest standing candidates in B.A in the subject of 'mental and moral philosophy'. But some changes occurred. In 1914 the University's Syndicate and Senate bodies after  discussion with the donor funded Ramtanu Lahiri research fellowship in 'History of Bengali language and literature' from this fund. The photocopy on the right is a rare first page of the book from University's publication in 1941. I am not sure whether Ramtanu or his son S.K Lahiri liked the poems or not. But one thing is for sure is that three school Headmasters in those days compiled the poems taking utmost care. Who they were, was never known or their names inscribed in the book. This book measuring 139 pages and 58 poems is a marvel when appreciated from a compiler's standpoint. The spread out of poems  range from Shakespeare, Nashe, Wotton, Dekker, Herrick, Blake, Wordsworth, Shelly, Keats to De la mare.The only Indian entry is 'Cradle song' by Mrs. Naidu. Such vast and unique is the collection that any publisher from this twentieth century will be dumbstruck and humiliated. This book was a compulsory inclusion in class IX syllabus in the golden era of matriculation examination. I am sure none from class IX these days will be able to assimilate such higher level of English literature. We and our students may have entered a world of extreme jugglery of abbreviations from the I.T (Information Technology) but alas with a loss of heart for the vibrant, worthy English and Vernacular literature. I myself have proper respect for today's Headmasters with M.A(English). But I am not confident of believing that they are comfortable of delivering such level of English teaching.