Away from home

Idly this morning I was sitting by my window turning the pages of the newspaper when my I caught the sight of an article on fratricide. Some liquor baron and his estranged brother have shot each other dead during a fight on some family estate. Disturbing as this news might appear it made the columnist cite how brittle our family values have become. It is common these days to find elders in the family fight it out for issues ranging from crucial to trivial. And in these times of dwindling faith such examples can only aggravate the evaporation of love and other tender feelings within us.

I f I would have rested the case there and concentrated on dancing geometrical shapes, about to take a toll on me on Tuesday, that would have been alright. Instead I travelled back in time to recollect what Sagarika Ghose wrote months ago.

We, the young Bengalis of today, have grown up in transitory times. We are part of a period in which mobile phones have transformed from being a rarity to common. We have witnessed the prowess of Kalpana Chawala or Sunita Williams and have rejoiced the night India lifted her World Cup. Yes there have been high moments. But moments trace their way back to memories and rest in peace there, coming up only in occasional conversations over salmon, wine and lemon soufflés. Ghose, in the couple of paragraphs she wrote, highlighted how the Bengalis have been stuck in a cage of senile nostalgia for the past few decades. The Renaissance of 19^th century, the fierce Rammohun, the versatile Tagore and the visionary Vivekananda are bygones now. And yes it is sad that we have done nothing about them apart from archiving their faces in the same old nostalgia which holds the black chapters of our petty family feuds. But why? Why did the air of my city fail to take a single mind after Tagore for a flight with the clouds to the distant horizons? As the peepal tree outside my window gave away few more dust-green leaves to the dry winter breeze I was burdened by heaps of why in my mind.

Growing in Calcutta brings with itself a handful of pre-defined values. I remember the eighth year of my life very vividly, more so because it was when a harmonium set its way to my room. Family legend has it that it belonged to my grandfather’s mother. Since then the eldest girl of every generation of my maternal family had to excel in Rabindra Sangeet. My grandfather’s sister and my mother’s sisters have maintained that ritual quite devotedly. However when the responsibility descended on me, I turned out to be unwilling to co-operate. Twelve years ago trams were still a heritage in Calcutta like they are now. And every Sunday morning my mother would take me out for a tram ride to Geetobitan, the Nalanda of Rabindra Sangeet in this city. Needless to say I hated early mornings as I continue to do that now. So my mother’s endless efforts to make me sing Tagore would result only in vain. I loved Tagore. I have adored Cabuliwallah, Amal and the ‘doi-wala’. I even remember his poem on the little river we had to read in second standard.

“amader choto nodi chole aake bake
boishakh mashe tar haatu jol thake”

But that was all about it. I loved Tagore for his simple poems and little stories that touched my heart even at that unripe age. But I could not love those songs which had lyrics well beyond the perception of my then eight year self. After six dismal years of untiring effort which hardly improved my chances of becoming a good singer, mother decided to let it go with a heavy sigh, moulded in disappointment. In the meantime I have reached foreign pastures of Doris Day, Frank Sinatra and Paul, Peter, Mary. Soon enough The Beatles, Floyd kept my mind so engaged that Rabindra Sangeet would only arrive at my doorsteps on ‘Poila Boishakh’.  Does that mean my love for Tagore was on the ebb? No, I just found a different way to love him unlike my other cousins who took the harmonium pretty seriously and mastered the same. Needless to say, I was never a hit at weddings or funerals where my other relatives would sing Tagore time and again proving my incapability at it, often suggesting me to start my lessons anew. Yes that is the clichéd Bengali lesson which made me uncomfortable for years till I wrote my first poem after reading Tagore. That day I knew I have loved him just enough to induce art in me. Shouldn’t that be the purpose on the first place?
We Bengalis fetch his reference in almost every matter we have to deal with. An entire race of his children have loved him and remembered him on every occasion, more recently at traffic signals courtesy the new government. Yet we failed to protect the best of the laurels he earned for his creations, The Nobel Prize.

The misery treads deeper as the state’s dilapidated villages get ruined every passing day in neglect and poverty while the urban dwellers can only engage themselves in heated political debates over cha as their children spend the nights mugging cryptic notes for mindless exams. Result is what we see now. The mind is too tired to fly and liberation is expected through divine intervention. The religious orthodox raises his voice and suggests us to perform endless worships of unknown deities. Rapes increase in number, students get frustrated staying unemployed and an entire race is engrossed in an afflicting slumber, one which does not rest but kills the mind. And this malady too, like charity, begins at home.

Ever since childhood we are taught to excel, to study and to be good at it. To learn Tagore and his songs like I just said, to paint, to dance to do what and what not. All that is good as excellence is exactly what the Bengalis lack today; an extraordinary vision that would help us rise and become the fierce legendary race which once was the front runner of the freedom movement. But excellence does not come with prolonged practice. It requires passion and a zeal to give everything for that one thing which strikes a chord with us among the many that we try to learn over the years. Sadly we often overlook this trait which helps us to identify our dreams. Though the Jack of all trades becomes the master of many, how many does he really care for after finishing the race? We are the ones who read a lot. Ever since childhood most of our mothers would tell us stories during bedtime or the afternoon nap. But how long do we retain this good habit of reading every day? At the face of an education which we hardly retain after writing the exam papers our good habits are in danger. A mind which has no room for words would never know how to jumble them and paint an imagination. That way it never sees the lands which Tagore used to see when he lived. That way it never feels the insatiable desire which led Vivekananda leave his home for a quest that made him conquer the world. Even if some might say Tagore’s family had their hereditary riches which gave him all the time to write all those verses what about Ramakrishna? In spite of coming from the poorest of poor family he provided our religion the much needed liberalism. Vivekananda had nothing but his unmatched oratory skill and an urge to better the society. It led him to go miles beyond the realm of possibility and bring radical changes in the mind of all and sundry. Once there was a time when women were encouraged to come out of kitchen and educate themselves. And today if a modern woman misses to perform fasts or pujas due to tiring office assignments her conjugal days often end briefly in miserable divorce. Worse is when a woman chooses to dress sexily and ends up being a feast to some hungry loins. The more sensible mothers and aunts will not spare criticising her dressing choices during some gossip at kitty parties. Our society is not ready to see its women choose such provocative apparels! Fair enough. But, is that the excuse for raping someone? How can rape be anything else than other than a sickening, heinous crime, an example of an ailing sexuality? With the women in despair and the youth in endless plight I wonder how the state will fare well in different fields in the years to come. Such is our condition that even our dreams have become restrained and meagre. With the thirst not being quenched for long I wonder how long can one remember the taste of rain? With the mind getting barren the dreams wilt in despair and the agonizing pain which crippled us all these years has shrunk the vistas of possibilities.

A change is required; a deep-rooted, deconstructing change that, like a violent storm, would upturn the foundations which are rusted now. Even if the new idea seems westernised we need to grab it and do the needful for what we do now neither preserves our oriental values nor help us reach greater heights. Once I heard someone wise saying, “When you have hit the bottom, you can only go up.” For us this time has arrived. Clearly the devoted religious endeavours or the stereotype education is not doing enough. Our religious customs are the hilarious example of a tug of war. At one end of it is the generation before, trying best to make the successors inculcate little bit of it as the disinterested younger ones would try to slip further away from the other end. If education was fulfilling enough there would have been a Beatles or an Ernest Hemingway even here, especially when there has already been a Tagore and many of his like. Growing up is itself painful. With the imperfections of the world becoming prominent with time, the transience of life, innumerable pathos through death and loss give everybody a hard time. What can be worse is the dissatisfaction we feel years later towards what we have become. And when one does that, he knows he is already away from home, by a distance much more than five hundred miles.

Our parents give us enough in our childhood; love, protection and everything we might need to survive in this ruthless world. But there can be things more than this. They need to give us a lesson of impossibility which is not as foreign as it sounds, rather achievable if we have the courage and the will to do it. It is okay if your teenage daughter falls in love in the years of her adolescence. She might receive heartbreak later but parents are not to protect their kids from every calamity. They are to imbibe that faith in them which promises to stay in difficult times and motivates them to come out of the deepest pit they fall into. The child might not solve fast calculus. But even if he cooks well there is an opportunity for him. One might not be good at singing Rabindra Sangeet but this too is fine. We need to learn and read. After a certain age we need to go out, travel and find that special thing which completes us. The world can be tough but it has many colours and above all it has hope. In every story of sadness that has a brighter end, in every streak of colour in the morning sunlight there is newness, there is a surprise. It is this which the mind needs to see. We might be blued now but with the slightest hint of discovery every direction becomes radiant and yellow. We need to discover and realize what our bet for excellence is. And once we do that, there cannot be a looking back. Travel is never pointless. It might ward you off to unknown lanes but you can always remember the way back. And one day you will not be away from home anymore. Therefore the family survives and reunites with its dreams being nourished and a happy family never gets indulged in ugly feuds. There has been an Ernesto Guevara this way so there can be many more.

The mind thus flies the way Tagore once wished as the singing lad brings impossibility to his doorsteps and finally settles by the riverside. In the many ripples then raised, the joy in this city rests in peace as a painter collages the scenery of an evening sunset and an author gives it deeper meaning. When happiness can never be enough hedonism does not seem to be a luxury.