A miser and a conservationist

Away from explicit, rigid, non negotiable expressions of disapprovals live a layman’s world where these two are inseparable and coexistent like one’s shadow. I have often found a conservationist being referred to as a miser in public place much to the latter’s amusement. These days the educated form crowd, bringing into shape those invaluable existences into valuable standards of behaviour. Every one seems to be educated in this age of internet, ready to put forward his views like a cheap ‘ready to fry’ envelope of mouth watering battered marinated fish. Silence is scarce, beyond reach of a gullible magic box eligible to cast his ballot in an untruly democratic country.   The public is thickly populated in twenty-first century, much thicker than the quiet listeners of the sixties of twentieth. You rarely would find people listening to you and pay heed. We are all kings in this new world but not very much like what Tagore referred to in “Amara sabai Raja amader ei Rajar rajotye” (we are all free like king in our state).

            My father’s friend, already dead by now, quietly put off the electric switch behind a person, carelessly leaving an empty room. People use to call him nuts, saving money for no one. Improperly turned off taps would find him finishing the left out work. It was one thing that made co-habitants see shades of red but they kept on reffering him as hoarder . This half dead, lean, meatless man would save, torn pieces of blank unused papers believing trees will be lost soon for making as few as half a dozen paper.

            Who is this ‘nuts’? I don’t know. I have often seen a scarcely read man, likely self groomed, a self styled existence who persistently nurtures his nous, unnoticed, an un-smart soul indeed, haunted at every corner of his living by his nonexistent, tempestuous dumb countertenor.    

            In today’s world where human interest other than in self is absconding, conservationism is in exile making room for a miser impersonating others. This is likely the future of modern man with changes coming faster than the speed of an  ultramodern computer chip. He adapts to the speed very much like the inhuman ‘transformers’ on screen unable to role back to his basic self.

How many times in the recent past had you witnessed a comon man on the street, conserving? Conserving a clean environment, not throwing his empty chocolate wrapper or an exhausted cigarette packet on the pavement. Not honking an enormously sharp sounding exhibitionistic car horn without suitable cause. A rareity indeed you never even thought of some twenty years back. At one time, a quality which showed up automatically and no one botherd to call it humane as it came up without a conscious thought and willingly with maturity, is scarse and may be needs ‘Finishing Schools’ for a come back. So the water keeps flowing, unused and uncared for  in government taps on streets, street lights keep burning at seven in the morning may be throughout the day, a noisy thoroughfare becomes a smarter avenue for the modern man, slangs flow down the lips in public places, newer babies keep seeing the daylight on pavements without their parents rarely using their brains, teachers slap their pupil without loving and caring for them.

Its time to conserve, not only the water on the street but the slang too, you had memorised in your childhood. May be the next door neighbour with whom you had never cared to talked to, is conserving the air for your next generation. Its time to conserve the word ‘ miser’ you often use for a quiet backbencher who keeps using his dusty gadget which has lost its shine.

My Tendulkars, My Cricket

About the size of two bedrooms an utterly undulated piece of barren land occupies right across my ground floor terrace. Like birds flock to their torn nests by the turn of the evening, eight under weight cricketers, surely below the age of twelve, appear one after other with the little one carrying a drowsy looking bat under his armpit. The shapeless, lustreless rubber ball will now change hands bringing thrill, no less than a seventies’ five-day match with daring Farook Engineer at stumps. There is no one standing behind the wickets, I find. A rather doubtful set of three ugly looking, crooked vertical lines on the moss filled broken wall, marks the fate of the batsman. No one complains about that. No spectators, no actors, no cheer girls is in view. Only a rarely summoned third umpire waits to-day’s thrilling half hour.

            There is so much fun and excitement in this friendly game that it puts the bribe trodden international cricket to shame. Even the honest that cheer the international players and watch these pre-decided matches should hide their face in disgust. But to my utter disbelief the friendly cricket game opposite my balcony too has some fighting inherent. All of my little friends love to bat, none care to move their arm like a half drawn cartwheel throwing the ball. Bowling seems to be tiring. To them bowling is a less attractive option than hitting the ball hard and bringing it to tears. So sometime there is difficulty to get the bit between one’s teeth and often expression of childhood anger evolve disappearing within minutes. These lilliputs  fight, some sort of transient jostling I should say which soon turn into human bondage. Such charming, unadulterated expression of human behaviour you always would envy in your adulthood.

            My duty is restricted to watching. But my honesty and rationality shine high in their mind. One day after some extended display of anger for who should bat first I was given the chance to decide their fate. I took it seriously, encouraging a fair play. I drew numbers one to eight in a row with a prefixed dash and covered the digits with the bat. The younger one was asked to choose a dash first and then the others. After all the markers were chosen by eight of them, I uncovered the digits by removing the bat. It was an easy task with impending clarity and little punctilious behaviour from me at sixty.

            The game was high on note but confusions came faster than the runs. Markings made by the ball on wall came one above the other, making decisions difficult. Display of anger followed by cries became obvious. No one was ready to leave the bat and take up a fielder’s job. Then one day larger controversies came, stopping the game like a bolt in the blue. I had no other option but to interfere. I couldn’t be a dumb spectator and watch these little champs display disgust like the adults. And then I thought, why don’t I gift them a set of real wickets and a piece of nice cricket bat?  The ball came next putting me to tears to see their joy.

CHARLES COLLYER AS A BOY WITH A CRICKET BAT by  Francis Cotes (1726-1770) from Wikimedia Commons

            While watching one such local game of cricket on a lazy Sunday afternoon I thought, how immensely fool the human race is, spending hundreds of pounds for a pre fixed, well rehearsed, pre decided match at an international arena. That half nourished, ill trained juveniles with their never ending energy, I contemplated, play and play and keep playing not loosing their honesty for even a second. The light was dim by now and the kids have reluctantly called off the match at least for today. I felt sorry for them. I said to myself,” Hats off my children, hats off to your truthfulness, righteousness and honesty.”

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