BURMAIK, KOKOMHENDO AND THE LITTLE ONE

For ‘idiotes’ away from the modern world jargon, perambulating in silence is paragliding decamp parachute. It’s a difficult task indeed, even in dreams. Promenades are scarce and silence expensive. Each time you visit a known place, your thoughts are saddened with the new moronic concrete that has evolved without resistance. Whereas for the intelligent gasbag circumambulating in made to order royal gardens is his relaxing arrogate endeavour.

Burmaik en route Kalimpong from Rangpoo via Munsong cherishes simple ‘home-stay’s facing mighty Kangchendzonga. Rainbows seem frequent in rarefied rascal air increasing your rapacity. Teesta flows like an enormous ophidian down below blue hills. Here silence is in plentiful. Endorphin flows effortlessly making ten- kilometre walks spasm free. In June, when it rains, thickly populated pines make vibrations seeking soul mates. Clouds make lose your loved ones, promising reinventions across hand’s breadth. Omnipotent presence of silence only intensifies the sound emanating from your moving body inviting embarrassment. A bunch of school goers breaks the complete lack of sound putting my endurance to shame.

At four forty in the morning I rise, to opiate myself with the nature’s tyranny. The white giant in front of my window kept changing its colourful robe not paying a heed. But soon the rain came down like an organdie spoiling my awe and the orography in front of my balcony.

Burmaik’s ostentatious presence on national highway 31A close to Sikkim’s border seemed fragile. My brothers from metropolis are not that good in conserving memories, I believe. Lush green opulent hills bounding serpentine tar make cars stop. But with it come empty bottles and tobacco wrappers. The poorly literate cinchona plantation workers know that. It’s their place where they were born and where they idle away their evenings after a tiring days work five kilometres down the hill. The Shiva temple up thousand odd stairs does bring brisk business during festive month without much harming the warble and the falaise around. The ‘Kokomhendo’ is still a produce expanding its foliage. This small deciduous tree (Oroxylum Indicum), found in the lower heights of Sikkim (unaware of  the boundary that restricts Burmaik to be a part of  Kalimpong subdivision and not Sikkim) gives birth to big two feet long sword shaped fruits. Large purplish flowers beautify the tree in May and June. Flat seeds have broad, white tracing paper like wings. These wings are sacred to the people of Sikkim. So sacred that it ornaments the Buddhist temples and even bond the newly wed. Its juice also calms down the fiery throat when fever and cough strikes. The pharmaceutical companies are aware of its medicinal properties. You are aware of the story of Basmati rice by now.

On the third day morning we decided to say good by to Arun Khaling in whose ‘home-stay’ we were cared and protected like the very best seven star ones that I had never visited and never would do so. Khaling’s wife was expecting her first child when we bid a tearful escape. This broad shouldered, tall, fair complexioned lady kept smiling the same way she did on the very first day but with a saddened eye she cared not to hide. Khaling reluctantly stopped a car that was heading Kalimpong to let us in on a shared trip. After I had secured my trolley bag in the carrier it suddenly struck me that I had carelessly thrown a chocolate wrapper in the home-stay. I hurriedly went back to hide it in my pocket. The little one will be there in August, reminding me of Tagore’s Balai and the hills should not be in torpor. 

COLOR KABIGURU and KETAKI

                                                                   

                  With the November breeze came a little astonishment from an unusual quarter. Literary works of Tagore and the bard’s perception of colour were to be discussed by the Ophthalmologists at their annual conference. Ketaki Kushari Dyson, the well known litterateur but an odd man out amongst the medical professionals was invited to deliver Major S.C. Dutt Memorial oration making it obvious of a unicameral origin of human knowledge. That he was a colour blind more specifically a protanope, was known to Tagore himself. He discussed at length with Indira Debi, Roman Rolland and Rani Chanda how disturbing it was. But those around him who made him into an institution tried hard to keep it a secret. Rarely would you find Viswa-Bharati publishing books on poet’s colour vision. In the last decade of   Nineteenth century, Tagore discussed his problem with eminent scientist friend J.C.Bose. Dr. Jyotirmoy Bose, another eye surgeon and R.W Pickford jointly published an article in British Journal of Aesthetics (Volume 27, No 1, winter 1987) about Tagore’s colour perception. But it was Ketaki Dyson who opened the doors into the inner world of Tagore’s psyche. Colours have so many things to say, so many things to do. Much of our thinking and a large part of the human soul is dependant upon it. When one does not perceive colour in its full spectrum he is ought to sustain breaking down his peaceful behaviour. How distressful it was when Tagore was at loss in describing the colour ‘red’ and its nearer spectrum. You can’t write about colours without seeing them. While Tagore came up with innumerable unusual words like ‘ranga’ (eng. Deep colour), ‘shyamal’ (eng. Cloudy greenish yellow) to describe primary colours like red, green etc, alliterations sprung in abundance evolving the Bengali language into an ornamental one. He was so helpless in appreciating sunsets (to Tagore it was yellow or orange like yellow) and sunrises (helplessly describing it as golden) that such colours like ‘red’ brought different meanings to his life. He thought ‘red’ to be darkness, painful, death, hidden, sadness and he was hurt by this colour. ‘Red’ to him was elusive and invincible or an absence of colour. Blood became a phobia or near black. And from it arose plays like ‘Raktakarabi’ (red oleander). Next time when you read this play, appreciate it in this unusual angle. ‘Red’ to him was of two types, good red or bad red and with it alliterations emerged in vivid sound patterns as ‘ranga hashi rashi rashi’.  In Purabi she said, “You will find the mournful sound of colour of sindur or red vermillion worn by married women on their forehead as a mark of respect to their married life.” Colour vision decides so much about one’s writings that Tagore gave birth to unimaginable usage of varied words in his published works you would never have dreamt of. Tagore is likely the end of Bengali language and it will take years to come up with some thing new. Ketaki said that Tagore would rarely write explicitly about colours. Tagore talked about colourful garlands, colourful clouds without describing the colours individually. With this came the glorification of the unseen. From not seeing, came touching. Colours turned out to be haunting and inflicting pain and then slowly turning into monochromatic ones. Tonal variations became rarer and Tagore started brushing layers after layers in search of the true colour. Paints took longer to dry. It took longer and longer, as the days passed by. Blue was seldom used. European skin became difficult to distinguish and the bard compared it with the colour of the grapes. There was immense problem with the green and red and as a result there was no green-red contrast. Tagore turned to primitive art like African wood cut masks, wood cut prints and expressionism. Usage of brown emerged in abundance while details in paintings lost its importance.  It was only the lines and boundaries and shapes that mattered.  

       

Rabindranath Tagore (Photo wikimedia commons)

   Only a few months (27.2.2011 to 8.3.2011) before this deliberation by Mrs Dyson, the Government Art College at Calcutta witnessed a unique incident hitherto unheard of. It held an exhibition of twenty-seven paintings by Tagore celebrating the bard’s sesquicentennial anniversary and managed to declare it open by none other than the Governor of West Bengal. Out of these twenty-four paintings emerged as fakes. Little did the deceivers remember that Rabindranath was a red-blue colour blind individual. He was an informal artist, untrained in the chiaroscuro effects of trained painters. Imagine the devastation if the culprits would have assigned a colour blind, untrained human hand. A painting by Tagore displayed here, named "Dancing Girl"  will tell you how unusual the colors are.

                                                                                                                      

            This oration by Mrs Dyson was preceded by a series of scientific papers on eye surgery, presented to the august gathering in form of a cricket match like platform in which each team scored runs to ultimately win a trophy. It was a packed house witnessing ear bursting applause. What came as a surprise was the thinning out of the crowd with the beginning of Dyson’s oration reminding me that hardly a few are interested in serious interdisciplinary discussions. Where there is fun, more is the number of audience. This is not only true for the illiterate and poorly groomed community but also for the elite educated class too. It is one who has an inclination towards extracurricular reading and matured thoughts, actually wins the trophy. My hat goes off to Dr. Jajneswar Bhunia, the dynamic eye surgeon, who dreamt of this oration and finally put it to shape. Many a surgeon may not pat your back Dr Bhunia, but one is crowd here.

            For those who are not comfortable with Bengali literature may know, Tagore is often referred to as ‘Kabiguru’ which means, poet of poets.

THE VERDICT

The end of the first decade of this new century is marked out by two dramatically opposite events. Tagore’s sesquicentennial birth anniversary falls this year together with the verdict on ever bewildering Ayodhya conflict. If the first reflects epitome of peace and tranquility then the other is sheer desecration. Any structure that invites inhuman relations will defile the area in question. A religion is true to its sense only when it debars hate and skepticism. No verdict is acceptable which breed inhuman relations and raises mankind to bad repair Let there be a violation of norm in this disputed land of the holy unknown and an institution arise from the dust where the poor and the ill and the injured irrespective of their religion, caste, creed and colour take shelter beneath the benevolent, compassionate hands of the doctors.

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.