Ten Qualities of Exceptional Teachers

Mold the rock. That’s an art.

I want to write about qualities of some exceptional people who made me what I am today.

I’ll be writing about exceptional teachers. I’ll be writing about exceptional writers, poets, musicians and artists and filmmakers. I’ll be writing about exceptional leaders. I’ll be writing about exceptional women. I’ll be writing about exceptional players.

Today, I’m going to write about exceptional qualities of teachers who transformed me from a piece of rock into a … whatever I am now. You can fill in the blank. At least, I’m not the same-old, boring piece of rock I used to be back in those days — before these exceptional teachers touched me with their magic, with their touchstone.

I remember way back when, in my Scottish Church School days in Calcutta, a teacher called me “pathor.” In Bengali, it means rock. Of course, he mocked my name with his usual, jovial slant. But I took it rather seriously (I think). I decided I’d show him and the rest of the world that I was not a pathor.

Unknowingly, Mr. Samar Kaviraj or “Kabiraj Babu,” the jovial teacher who dedicated his life for his students, inspired me to transform from within. I lost touch with him when he left our school for a better-paid position somewhere else. But I have remembered his fun slants and his affection all my life.

If you think of it, slants go hand in hand with affection in a place like India or Bengal where a deeply-entrenched colonial education is still in place. Nobody minds if a teacher makes fun of a student once that teacher also shows care, affection and respect for the student. At least, when I didn’t mind when I was a student in Calcutta. Of course, I had my share of horribly abusive teachers whose only exceptional qualification was an exceptional dexterity to punish students. I’ve talked about it in one of my blogs. You can read it here.

But here, I’m going to remember some truly, positively exceptional teachers I’ve had both in Bengal, India and later in the U.S. I often think about them with a deep sense of admiration. I’ve considered them as role model teachers all my life. I’ve tried to analyze what qualities have made them so exceptional and inspiring.

“Pathor”

I’ll try to list ten such qualities here. I do not believe it is possible to order them. No one is more important than the others. Plus, ten is just a convenient number; I’m sure we can find many more such qualities for the teachers we’ve remembered in our lives. I’m only scratching the surface of this ocean of treasures.

1. Definitely, respect for students is a very important attribute a teacher can have. In a place like India where colonialism is still in vogue, it’s very common to find a mindset that a teacher only deserves respect from the student and it is never reciprocal. On the other hand, here in America, I found professors who showed me how mutual respect was an essential element in the process of learning. In Calcutta too, even though they were few and far between, I had teachers both in high school and then in college and university who showed that they understood the importance of paying respect to their students. And of course, they were highly respected too. Like I said, respect is mutual.

2. Encouragement. — I’m tempted to say: see above. Really, you could almost replace the word respect with encouragement, and you would know what I meant. Particularly in a very colonial, learning-by-rote education system in Bengal and India, teachers encouraging students as opposed to discouraging them and putting them down is rare. And that makes it precious too. School teachers, college teachers, university teachers and especially one of the most important teachers at home — your father (or mother) — would make that critical difference in how they would treat their students (or children). Would they find some kind words, some words of cheer? A small word of encouragement from the teacher has always lightened up my desire to learn, and to do better in the otherwise dreadfully boring tests in India.

3. Teachers who never show off. — I’ve always found it a very important quality. Students are smart to know how much the teacher knows and how much he or she shows off. They know the difference. A teacher like Prof. Robert Mohlenbrock never showed off; yet we were glued to his biodiversity and endangered species class. At Scottish Church School in Kolkata, math teacher Shyamadas Mukherjee never showed off; yet, even the rogue students in the most turbulent, violent era never cut his class. There would be no cat calls in his forty-five-minute periods.

4. Practice equality for boys and girls, rich and poor, brilliant and average students. — Of course, I never experienced coeducation until my university days in Kolkata. But when I did experience it, finally, that was one attribute of a teacher that quickly came through. Teachers mocking students coming from poor families was commonplace. Teachers ridiculing average and below-average students, and that too, in front of the entire class was commonplace. In college and university, praising brilliant male students for their achievements and at the same time bypassing brilliant female students for an equal or more achievement was commonplace too. Exceptional teachers — those I thought were the best — never practiced such inequality. I can definitely mention Prof. Ray Stotler and Barbara Stotler at Southern Illinois University. In Calcutta, we had our plant pathology professor Dr. Purakayastha who was exceptional.

Prof. Lawrence Matten. An inspiration!

5. Inspiring to question and challenge. — Very few teachers in India allowed us, encouraged us to question and challenge either the subjects they taught or the way they taught them. Ancient religious texts in Hinduism were full of teachers who would always admire and even reward their students for questioning and debating. A dark, medieval, feudal, “Brahminic” (upper-caste-dominated) era followed by a British-imposed colonialism later sustained by Gandhi and his hand-picked successors choked the young mind in India and Bengal of free thinking. Chemistry teacher Nitya Ranjan Sengupta or Bengali teacher Amiya Roy back in my Scottish Church School days brought great reassurance that respectful questioning could be an important aspect of learning too. Prof. Lawrence Matten at Southern Illinois University was exceptional the way he encouraged me to question — even him!

6. Sense of Humor. — Absolutely essential element of a teacher to be exceptional. A warm smile, a fun story, or jokes without being out-of-control or crude bring the teacher close to the student. You know how to poke fun in teaching? You got a sold-out crowd, instantly! You are a Nobel Prize winner teacher and you don’t know how to smile? Sorry, you’re not going to win the most popular teacher contest. Ever!

7. Hands-on Learning. — Abstract, imaginary examples never score points with students. You’re teaching algebra? Okay, use real-life examples. You’re teaching history of British colonialism and partition of Bengal and Punjab? Okay, bring a couple of ex-refugees to speak to your students. You’re talking about global warming? Okay, find some flowers that are now blooming earlier-than-normal these days. You’re teaching Shakespeare? Okay, do a small drama using your students as Anthony, Cleopatra or Shylock. (Just don’t enact the blood and flesh part). You’re teaching journalism and how to interview people on the street? Alright, give the student editor a tape recorder and her assistant editor a camera (or, today, just give them an i-Phone). You’re teaching ecology and evolution? Don’t tell students that this year, they’re not important for the test. Bring them out on field trips and show them ecology and evolution in real-life situation. Take them out to the botanical garden or zoo. They do it here in America all the time. Why can’t you do it in Calcutta, Bombay or Dhaka?

8. Make Tests Tasty, Not Testy. — We had our share of nightmarish tests made up by teachers who never know how to teach; they were only good at making things difficult for you. Some of us threw up taking tests. Some of us had high fever the day before. Some others — otherwise good students — did miserably just because of the extreme uncertainties. Grading our tests for some of our teachers was almost like a sadistic pleasure — complete with the chain saw and all. As if they were being paid to show how merciless and cruel they could be. Is slaughtering your students on a slaughter-pin otherwise known as an exam fun for you? It certainly is not for me! I remember I got a 100 out of 100 in my fourth or sixth grade in math, history or geography, and a 96 in chemistry and a 92 in biology in my final year in high school. All these teachers were exemplary teachers. They made up their tests exactly the way they taught the subjects in class. Other teachers or board exams? I felt lucky every time I passed. And my wife got an absent mark on her B.Sc. zoology test, only to find miraculously the head examiner University of Calcutta appointed, to salve her lost exam and get reexamined! A couple of my own students from rural Bengal were not lucky: their exams were never found!!

9. Students Do Want to Learn. — Contrary to what many teachers think, students both in India and USA — the two countries I’ve seen up close — actually have a strong desire to learn. Students’ minds are like blotting papers: they soak up the education. Their minds are like a soft piece of clay: it’s up to the teachers to decide if they want to mold it artistically or burn it harshly to a black, hard lump where nothing ever gets absorbed. Teachers who have the quality to artistically, delicately, softly transform that piece of clay like a kneaded rubber into a beautiful piece of art are exceptional teachers. That transformation happens with a deep sense of care and emotional attachment with the student: to consider the student as a man or woman with potential and possibilities. The teacher who has mastered that craft of molding with care and love and respect — to instill imagination and confidence into that soul yearning to learn is the greatest teacher. Poor, grossly-underpaid teachers with absolutely limited resources could turn out to be some of the best teachers of your life. I feel fortunate I’ve had seen some of them in my Calcutta days.

Care and Love. It’s a Delicate Matter.

10. — Did I say it before? Never hurt them. — A teacher is there to heal and not hurt. A teacher is there to compliment and not ridicule. A teacher is not there to punish. He is there to care and love.

Some of the best teachers I’ve had in my long years as a student — both in Bengal, India and here in America — carried with them the above exceptional qualities. I carry them in my mind as my role models. They’ve made me, me. These artisans have changed a piece of rock — the pathor — into a somewhat refined object of a somewhat good-looking entity.

I’m happy I’ve known these exceptional teachers.

In deep gratitude,

Partha

Brooklyn, New York

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This is where the journey began.

Learning from Scratch: American Wildlife

Can you ID this tree in leafless winter? Yes, by its shag bark.

When I first came to America, not only did I not know a single human soul here, I also didn’t know the trees and the shrubs, the herbs and the bushes. I did not know anything about the vast, wonderful wildlife Mother Nature rewarded this vast, wonderful country with.

The first few months, as I have said many times over, was a feeling Neil Armstrong had when he first landed on the moon. Only difference was that he did not see a soul — human or not — across the entire planet. In my case, I saw countless men, women and children; I saw countless plants and insects and mushrooms. But I did not know a single one. It was surreal.

It took me a very long time to get used to this new reality. Or, as some people say, I’m never going to get used to this reality, ever. I just keep trying.

Anyway, I’ve told that adjustment-lack-of-adjustment story many times over too.

But I’ve never told the story how I slowly came to learn the plants of this country — one plant at a time. Back in Bengal, because I was a botanist, I had to learn a small fraction of the incredibly rich flora Mother Nature carefully set aside for that vast, wonderful land. Not only we as botany students had to memorize the Latin names of hundreds of herbs and trees, some of us the overenthusiastic type often went out on our own to explore the vegetation of various villages. It was major fun. I tried to bring some of that fun on to my own students when I was the only botany professor at a remote, rural college of Bengal.

We knew Cassia tora in Calcutta.

In my own college days, naive urban kids from Kolkata who only pretended to be know-all, we came to know the differences between the various varieties of Ficus, or the subtle features of the yellow flowers of two species of Cesalpinia. We knew where to find a rare Putranjiva. We learned which months were the best to find the blooming Lantana, Cassia or Euphorbia, and that too, on which side of which suburban train station. We knew where to find the lactating Michelia champaca. We knew where to find a lush produce of Ixora — the bush of long, red flowers that bore the resemblance of a delicate paint brush.

I discovered Ixora, in delight.

Now, here in the U.S., I learned new varieties of Ixora. I saw them for the first time, enchanted, during a conference trip to Miami, Floria. Then, much later, I discovered Cesalpinia on Key West! In America, because I was a plant biology student for the first few years at two Illinois universities, my craving to learn the American flora only grew stronger. But for my Ph.D. research, I concentrated not on plants, but on fungi. Even though fungi are not plants, but traditionally, just like in India, botany departments normally find teachers to teach fungi — both the micro and macro types. So, I ended up in a plant biology department.

I was lucky to have been in such a department at Southern Illinois University, because I came to know very well-known botanists such as Prof. Robert Mohlenbrock, paleobotanist Prof.

Dr. Bob Mohlenbrock with his privileged students.

Lawrence Matten, and moss expert couple Profs. Raymond Stotler and Barbara Crandall-Stotler. Between these dedicated teachers who were also great, student-loving human beings, my education of botany — which was only scant at best in India — became somewhat complete. At my first U.S. school Illnois State University, I had the privilege to know Prof. Roger Anderson who as an ecologist also taught us various plants. In fact, I remember he showed us the difference between the various species of maple and oak.

Then, of course, my own research advisor Prof. Walter Sundberg and the many well-known mycologists and plant pathologists I came to know through my intense years as a Ph.D. student found me treasured opportunities to learn more about the American wildlife and vegetation. Again, for over five years, I wandered across small and big forests primarily in the American Midwest — Illinois, Missouri, Kentucky and Tennessee — on personal or group excursions to collect countless species of mushrooms, and got to know their required host vegetation. (On some of these excursions, I encountered poison ivy, deer ticks and rattlesnakes). Then, I reported my research findings at scientific conferences where both graduate student colleagues and young and senior professors befriended me and encouraged me on my work. It was a very special, rewarding time of my life.

Rytas Vilgalys at Duke. Brilliant guy. Great friend.

I owe deep gratitude to some of these mycologists who not only taught me fungi, but also took me in as one of their own in this otherwise very strange, unknown land. I take this privilege to express my gratitude to some of these people: Greg Mueller of Chicago, Rytas Vilgalys of Duke, Roy Halling of New York, Ron Petersen of Tennessee, Joseph Ammirati of Seattle, and John Haines of Albany. There are many more whom I did not have time to mention in this brief space of a blog.

In America, through American teachers, I came to understand the real purpose of learning the plants and animals and fungi and insects and even viruses. I learned about biodiversity, evolution, ecology and adaptation. Through a course I took from Prof. Mohlenbrock, I first learned about IUCN, the International Union for Conservation of Nature. Through two young professors Rytas Vilgalys and Greg Mueller who became like friends, I learned about how to use molecular biology to understand the evolution of fungi. With another young professor Caro-Beth Stewart at the University of Albany where I did post-doctoral research in molecular evolution, I learned some of the underlying concepts of biology research in today’s modern-day science. These are subjects I did not have much opportunity to know before.

Now I know them all!

Not only now I know the difference between the maple and oak, and also the differences between red oak, white oak, pin oak and burr oak, I now know what makes it so important to know those differences. The so-called creationists would cringe, but through my teachers here in America, I now know creationism is crack and crazy. Science conclusively proves evolution. Science conclusively proves global warming. Science shows us the importance of conserving nature.

In my own little way, through knowing my plants and fungi and insects and wildlife here in America, I eventually understood the relevance of my reading.

Gratefully Writing,

Partha

Brooklyn, New York

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Ordinary Americans are extraordinary. They care about Mother Nature a lot. I was privileged to know them.

Aroma Therapy

We keep talking about how to heal the hurt soul.

We spoke about music, memories, mellow moments and their magic to make us merry.

We spoke about the good effects of the good that affect us good.

Really, there is no other way to keep out of the quicksand this new Roman Empire has laid out for us — with the relentless Orwellian war, violence, democracy travesty, vast personal data mining in the name of fighting war on terror, and global profiteering in the name of prosperity.

You and I do not matter in this game the powerful play. You and I are prone to death, despair, depression and destruction.

Yet, you and I perhaps do not want to surrender and succumb so soon. Therefore, we need our own, totally non-violent weapons of mass survival.

Those precious pre-Wal-Mart days!

Music, memories and mellow moments are some of our personal, not-for-profit weapons of survival. We are our own psychological counseling. We use yoga. We do meditation. We walk in the park. We write poetry. We chant mantras. We look out the window to hear the train whistle by. We look out the window to hear the waves break on a stormy dawn. We hear the rain patter on a perched tin roof.

Yes, we did talk about the music for the ear.

Today, I’m briefly talking about the music for the olfactory. I call it aroma therapy. It’s another beautiful, delicate, sensitive, humane, civilized way to keep your senses sane.

The smell of a ripe mango. Just close your eyes and think about it. Or, much better, get one in Dhaka, Murshidabad, Mumbai, Malaysia, Thailand or  Trinidad — a fresh, beautiful fruit plucked right off the mid-summer tree — and hold it close to your olfactory. You are in heaven.

Crisp samosa. Bengali singara. From Mukti’s Kitchen. Brooklyn.

The flavor of a just-cooked samosa — crisp, beautifully shaped. You can eat it later. For now, just smell it. Or, think about the last time you did.

Remember the smell of newly-stocked saris and shirts your neighborhood shopkeeper laid out for you and your family just before the Durga Puja and Diwali holidays? Didn’t you feel like you wanted to sleep there — in the middle of all the new clothes, wrapped around by the heaps of new saris and shirts? You don’t get that smell anymore since the neighborhood shopkeeper folded his business and moved out. The new clothes merchant does not speak your language, and he would not let you sleep in the middle of the new clothes, wrapped around by the heaps of the new saris and shirts.

But there is no harm thinking about those days when it was possible. The beautiful smell is always there deep inside. Just look for it.

Or, the smell of the brand-new books you went to buy with your father after getting the book list in grade school. Or, the smell of your first, pricey cup of Qwality ice cream in Calcutta.

Or, the wonderfully healthy fragrance of hundreds of pine trees on your first hunt for boletes on a nippy November morning. Here in America.

We shall write more.

Wrapping around with a soft aroma shawl,

Partha

Brooklyn, New York

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Fresh. Fragrance. Fantastic.

Music of Sound

Sound Therapy. Bengal Monsoon.

Let’s talk about pleasant sounds.

Sound can work as therapy for the perched soul. It’s like a rain shower in Bengal after a long, hard spell of summer.

Sound can work as magic for the forlorn. Sound can soothe the sad and the depressed.

Pleasant sound is music. It’s the music of sound. It’s the music of soul.

But you must want it with all your heart — to make it happen.

Try it.

Soft sound. Subtle sound. Long-lost sound. Sounds you love to hear.

Sounds you always loved to hear.

Search with your eyes closed. Go back down the memory lane. Look in your heart. Listen carefully. Focus. Concentrate. Like Yoga. Breathe normally.

Get rid of all your stress and anxiety.

Can you totally detach yourself from the rest of the world and wait for the bliss to come back to life — one sound at a time?

Try it.

It works like magic. It is one of the best meditations you can ever buy — for free.

I do it often. Sounds that reside deep inside my mind. I look for them. I pray for them. I dream.

Here in North America. Sounds like gemstone.

I pick up two pebbles from the sand — two beautiful-looking rocks — and softly hit one against the other. As if I’m chanting a mantra. Om…ting…ting…ting…

And then, they come back from those long-lost childhood days. Even grown-up days. My Kolkata days. My Bengal days. My India days. And then, my days in here in America.

Like, rain drops in early June — Prospect Park, Brooklyn.

They return, slowly, one beloved sound at a time. Like a quiet morning drizzle.

Think what you saw. Dream what you heard.

Try it. Try it with me.

You might want to thank me for this.

Nobody can photograph the sound you loved the most. Not even the best video camera has that kind of power. Only your mind has captured them and stored them — deep inside.

Your job is to want them to come back — with all your heart, with the best words to pray, with the softest yearning.

If you know how to want them to come back, believe me, they will come back.

Brazil v Italy — in Kolkata. I was there.

They come back to me. They return, slowly, with love.

Rain drops in a fish pond. Dark clouds. Thunder happened earlier. Now it patters. In lush green. Tops…tops…toops…trops…troops…

Football drops in a pool of gray slush. Splash…Splruch…splush…lots of giggles. Young boys laugh.

Sea waves breaking on the beach of Puri. High waves. Bathing in it. Stomach initially fears. Then relaxes. Gets ready for major fun. With family members or friends.

Lots of giggles. And some little coughs and screams too. Somebody drank salt water.

Remember. Try.

You shall reward yourself, richly.

Pleasantly Writing,

Partha

Brooklyn, New York

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Memory. Sounds. Fun.

The Passing of Rituparno Ghosh

I just got some bad news from Calcutta. Noted filmmaker Rituparno Ghosh suddenly died this morning. He was 49.

In some ways, Ghosh reminded us of Fassbinder. In their separate social contexts and possibilities, they both challenged the “normal” society and the larger limitations of humanity. Both had a “libertine” lifestyle. Both probably died of strange, out-of-the-ordinary reasons — prematurely.

Both Fassbinder and Ghosh were exceptionally talented and extremely hard-working. Both cut a new genre of powerful, artistic movies.

Art critic, film professor Dilip Basu at University of California at Santa Cruz wrote me: “He was an idealist/realist, and an iconoclast.”

Prof. Basu is right. Ghosh carried forward the bright torch of Bengali liberal intelligentsia, a torch passed on by the likes of Satyajit Ray, Ritwik Ghatak, Mrinal Sen, Tapan Sinha and more recently, Buddhadev Dasgupta, Aparna Sen and Gautam Ghose. All these noted movie makers, Ray and Ghatak being the two globally-famous names, showed us how progressive thoughts and anti-status-quo intellectualism and politics can thrive — even in an extremely conservative and patriarchal society. Yes, they can survive an onslaught of MTV, Beyoncé, Spielberg, Titanic and Jolie.

Or, in the Indian context, Amitabh Bachchan, Aishwarya Rai and Amir Khan.

Fassbinder (1945-1982)

The Bengali poets, artists, musicians and intellectuals have created an indelible path of free and futuristic thinking. Indian filmmakers and playwrights such as Ray, Ghatak and Ghosh as well as Badal Sarkar, Shyam Benegal, Girish Kasaravalli, Adoor Gopalakrishnan, M. S. Sathyu and Ketan Mehta vigorously put up a strong resistance against the quicksand kitsch of Bollywood. Millions of Indians and Bengalis are proud they have refused to be a part of the Bollywood imbecility. They drew inspiration from the vibrant, alternative, pro-real-life, anti-fantasy genre. They needed the inspiration now more urgently than ever before.

Ghosh’s sudden, untimely departure is thus truly difficult to grasp today.

Professor Basu wrote me: “A Bollywood friend told me once, ‘If you are looking for real innovation, you will not find it here as much as in Kolkata [Calcutta]. Where is a Rituparna Ghosh in Mumbai?’” For those who do not know, Bollywood movies are all made in Mumbai (previously Bombay — thus the name Bollywood: Bombay-Hollywood).

There was never a Satyajit Ray or Ritwik Ghatak in Mumbai Bollywood. There was never a Rituparno Ghosh or Aparna Sen in Bollywood Mumbai either. Especially if you think about the exquisite art Rituparno Ghosh held in his frames.

Many smiled at him. Many more laughed.

Especially, Ghosh was indeed an iconoclast. For India’s extreme, and often violent male chauvinistic society, his coming out as a gay/transgender was itself a revolutionary act. Some say, his sexual orientation and fiercely individualistic lifestyle made him a lonely man.

A Calcutta critic Yajnaseni Chakraborty wrote today: “…the jibes at the way he dressed and talked, the personal attacks on his films and those he acted in, the insensitivity of a society he was trying to change and educate, the seeming disloyalty of those he considered friends, and his inability to really, truly, trust anybody. Beneath his nonchalant facade, the hurt and the loneliness dug deep.”

I was not so much for his almost exhibitionist, somewhat bizarre lifestyle. In fact, as a movie enthusiast, I was not even one of his biggest fans. I never liked the way he filmed Tagore’s Chokher Bali (Eyesore) and cast Bollywood queen Aishwarya Rai as the lead, feminist character (Bollywood is polar opposite to women’s equality, in case you didn’t notice; and the Bachchan-Rai family has been one of the lead torchbearers of this anti-feminism street swear). I strongly disliked the way Ghosh distorted Tarashankar Banerjee’s novel Antar Mahal (Heart Quarters). I always thought Rituparno, in a zeal to break down any social norms, customs and traditions, took it too far too quickly, and did not do justice either to the original authors or to the core messages they wanted to pass on to us. His cinematography took over his body of work, not only from a film-language point of view, but also from a social message point of view. His much-pronounced individualism thus unfortunately alienated me from some of his otherwise memorable creations.

Indian Rituparno Ghosh, at the end, perhaps gave in to Western Ayn Rand’ism. Or, perhaps, to Fassbinder’ism.

But I still want to remember him as one of our greatest artists and filmmakers; Ghosh brought the Bengali-Indian audience back to Bengali-Indian cinema from kitschy-glitzy-variety Bollywood. I want to remember his movie Dahan (Crossfire), where Ghosh took on the rampant street violence on women in India as well as the cowardice of Bengali middle class failing to prevent it. He took it head-on. I want to remember how he used our beloved Tagore singer Suchitra Mitra as a major actress on the movie and brought the best out of her. I would want to remember Chokher Bali, not for the film interpretation as much, but for the celestial music Ghosh’s music director Debojyoti Mishra created for the movie. I would close my eyes and just listen to the music for its entire two hours — non-stop.

Mastery in art. Captured in the frame.

Again, I was not a major fan of Rituparno Ghosh the filmmaker. But even without blinking for once, I would rank him as one of the most important artists — a cultural icon — of our time, who defied kitsch-for-entertainment, and had opted for intelligence and humanism — the essence of Bengali-Indian identity.

Or, rather, the way I have always considered our Bengali-Indian identity. Or, for that matter, my present Bengali-Indian-American identity.

Rituparno Ghosh and his art are going to be dearly missed.

Sadly Writing,

Partha

Brooklyn, New York

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Dahan by Rituparna Ghosh. Everybody knows, Nobody cares. Nobody dares. Nothing changes.

Photographic Memory

Photographic Memory 1. — A Chicago home, far away from home. I saw my first snowfall here. I learned how to cook in its kitchen. I got to know how to acculturate the American immigrant way.

I often write about my memories. Some say, I have a photographic memory.

I’m not so sure about it.

Of course, I did have a better memory when I was a school kid. In fact, I remember, when I was in tenth grade, I went to a summer camp for a month where I met a bunch of kids of more or less my age — kids whom I’d never seen before. On our first meeting, the instructors lined us up and asked us to say our names. In our group, there were about twenty kids. At the end of saying our names out loud, the instructors asked for a volunteer who would be willing to say a few names and identify the names with the faces.

You guessed it right: I volunteered myself. And yeah, you guessed it right again: I repeated all the twenty names and put the names with the faces correctly, only after hearing the names once — for the first time in my life. Everyone was surprised; I was of course very happy that my pride balloon got full of that gratification gas.

Ah well…those were the days…way back when…

But I don’t have that kind of photographic memory no more. In fact, these gray-hair days, I often need photographs of memories to remember my memorable moments.

So, without further ado, here’s a bunch of photos for you. These people and these places have stuck with me forever because of some special moments they’ve shared with me and I’ve shared with them. I hope you have a few minutes of your valuable time to look at the photos and read the descriptions I put together for them. You might find them worth…remembering.

Dear Calcutta, Bengal, India, with Love. Yours, Partha

Each photo is a pleasant reflection of some of my precious moments here in America. Each littlest detail on these photos takes me back — instantly — to the uncertain, unnerving, shaky first days of my coming to the U.S. — as a twenty-some year-old foreign student, a “non-resident alien” as the Immigration and Naturalization Service used to call our type. I made $380 per month (yes, per month!) at Illinois State University to teach biology labs to undergrad students, pay for rent and food and buy other items to live such as laundry and airmail letters, and also pay 10 percent of it as income tax to the U.S. government. Yes, 10 percent income tax squeezed out of a dirt-poor foreign graduate student like me, who came to America empty-handed.

Ah, well…not to distract no more.

Each detail on these photos reminds me how my life took an unimaginable turn — within a matter of weeks — since getting out of Calcutta and getting in to Chicago. From a society I knew all my life to a country where society was practically non-existent.

These people and places found me a new society of my own in this then nonresident alien land. They took care of my trembling, about-to-explode heart, and re-settled it.

Jhumpa Lahiri, Mira Nair and their “Namesake” could have easily borrowed a few frames from my personal album. It’s a pity they decided to bypass it.

Sincerely Writing,

Partha

(Back in Brooklyn, New York)

Photographic Memory 2. — The maple tree here in Chicago was two decades younger back then. Sitting under it, I wrote a number of long letters to the loved ones I left behind in Calcutta. It sounds sentimental, but really, this tree heard a lot of my heart beats up close.

Photographic Memory 3. — “Bob” Uncle, as they fondly called Mr. Nath. A totally selfless, unassuming man, a big brother, he and his family gave me a home here in America, far, far away from home. Bob Uncle gave me my first cooking lesson. He also gave me my first driving lesson. He taught me the rules of baseball and American football. Acculturation — they call it.

Photographic Memory 4. — Photograph and memory merge. Two out of these six people were not here at that time when I first came to America. They joined us later. The others — a Bengali housewife and mother and two Gujarati sisters — they were much younger back then — gave me love and smiles that held my heart in its place. The kitchen, the dining room, even that turn-up-turn-down little dinner-table light carry stories. I shared countless joys and tears with them.

India’s Mega-Billion Cricket Scandal

Wife of India’s cricket captain often seen with a lead bookie cum Bollywood star

RELATED NEW YORK TIMES STORY. — In Cricket Scandal, Revelations on India

Two years ago, I wrote that India and Pakistan had fixed their world cup cricket match — for billions of dollars through bookies and bribes.

Nobody paid any attention to what I had to say.

Now, a new episode of India’s cricket scandal got exposed during the IPL tournament, and some small investigation got some small cricketers and Bollywood stars arrested for spot fixing. And even though we all know how big cricketers and big Bollywood stars are involved in this mega-billion-dollar betting industry, and how corporate India, politicians and media and law enforcement will soon hush it all up, especially well before the 2014 national elections — to save and protect the ruling class and their lynchpins, we need to revisit how the game of cricket that we had once loved so much has now become a matter of mafia, muscle and money — disgracing our souls and shaming our identities one more time.

Center of power and conflict of interest: board chairman

I thought I should bring back the article I wrote two years ago on a very scandalous episode involving the people in power — both in India and Pakistan. Now, with the meteoric rise of the IPL tournament, the scandal has become global and all the participating countries with their players, officials and politicians have now become suspects.

Would an international low enforcement body investigate this international crime?

You decide.

Sincerely Writing,

Partha

Brooklyn, New York

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Friday, April 1, 2011

India-Pakistan World Cup Cricket: Fixed?

India-Pakistan World Cup semifinal match: fixed?

FYI. (Please make a note that I’m not doing it because I’m anti-India, anti-Pakistan, or anti-anything. I’m only asking people to think calmly and objectively about the scandals and lies that cheat us and our children; there’s NO difference when it comes to India, Pakistan or any other big power.)

It deeply troubles me, and keeps me awake. Here’s my two cents on this. I hope you do something about it.

Were a billion-plus people (and especially children and youth) cheated by the people in power and their cronies on the field? Was there small or big-time fixing, group politics, gambling, spot-fixing, fancy-fixing, political pressure, personal rewards, threats or intimidation to sway the game and the overall outcome of 2011 World Cup Cricket?

Can we investigate, and prove or disprove the allegations?

I’ve played a lot of cricket in my years, and always kept in touch with it. Here’s my “evidence” to bring a prima facie case with an allegation that the match could well have been fixed.

(1) Pakistan strike bowler Umar Gul’s huge run giveaways in the first few overs; and yet, captain Shahid Afridi gave him the ball in the final overs when he gave away many more runs to give India a respectable total (completely unnecessary: Abdul Razzak who only bowled a couple of overs, was not given the ball, and he looked grim).

And was it true that Afridi refused the final bowling power play, making it even easier for India? (Personally, I’d want to believe that he was a helpless onlooker of group pressure and politics.)

(2) Pathetically slow batting by Pakistan batsmen: it was a pain sitting through watching it (especially by aggressive batsmen like Misbah and Younis), yielding an impossible asking run rate (it went up from 4 or 5 per over in the beginning of their innings to almost 9 in the middle of the innings; and India’s bowling was truly below-average). The way some of the Pak batsmen threw their wickets away was horrible: couldn’t possibly happen in a normal scenario.

(3) Pakistan players’ body language was very suspicious: especially of Umar Gul, Kamran Akmal and Younis Khan; they looked face stiff even from the start of the game. Why?

(4) Pakistan constantly excluded star bowler Shoaib Akhtar even in the India match (who announced retirement after World Cup, expressing “disgust” the way he’s been treated). Maybe, he knew something? Can we ask him?

(5) India played three ordinary pace bowlers especially Munaf and Nehra who bowled miserably; yet, star Pakistani batsmen would not make strokeplays against them.

(6) Pakistani wicketkeeper and other Pak players’ gestures after dropping “Man of the Match” (?) Sachin four or five times were telling (and this wicket keeper is notoriously unscrupulous, many say). Come on, was it Sachin’s Man-of-the-Match game? Why not young Riaz?

(7) Pakistan’s recent political troubles are massive and it extremely needed to mend ties with India by any means; beating India in India would not go well with that fence-mending, and India would also perhaps be thrown in a Shiv Sena type turmoil (SS had already warned of dire consequences of a Pakistan win). ICC or BCCI would not want something that would cut into their profits and reputation (or whatever is left of the reputation). India govt., for that matter, needed something big for a diversion: India’s economic situation is scary, and opposition is gaining ground.The April 3 New York Times article said Sonia Gandhi got what she asked for: diversion from major IPL, Commonwealth and 2G scandals that rocked India.

(8) Pakistani minister’s prior warning to players “not to fix” the India match was ominous. Maybe, it’s time to have an interview with him?

(9) Pakistan’s recent-past wicketkeeper Zulkarnain Haider’s new allegations (and some other individuals’ action including the Lahore court petition to investigate fixing) that the match was set up must be followed on.

All conjectures? Could be. But it’s a question of thinking critically, and finding circumstantial evidence.

I have no doubt that you’d understand the gravity of the situation.

I’d be very happy if after investigation (a real one), it turns out to be all clean.

(Then we’ll talk about the billion-dollar bookies in IPL and T-20, but we’ll save it for now).

Thanks for listening.

Partha Banerjee

Brooklyn, New York

April 1, 2011

(Revised on April 4)

It Rains. My Memories Mushroom.

Rain has a lot to do with my memories. My pleasant memories.

I promised to my family, friends and well-wishers that I’d be writing about some of my most wonderful memories — to pull myself out of this depressing time with the global war, economic tyranny, worker deaths and all. We need to talk about the good times God has blessed us with, and not just the horrid times Satan has thrown at us.

Karl Marx, Engels and Hegel and such philosophers would perhaps call this continuous conflict between the good and the bad as proof of dialectical materialism, but even without being a Marxist, I can definitely vouch that they are right: this lifelong conflict between God’s paintbrush and Satan’s smudge is that dialectics — of materialism or not. It could well be a fierce fight between spirituality of the soul and dark devilish doom.

Robert Louis Stevenson many years ago showed us how in the human mind, such a major fight goes on between Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He made the hideous Hyde the ultimate victor. I’m not so sure I want to look at life that way, even though we have an ever-increasing, zillion reasons to want to believe that is the case, especially with the rise of a new, tyrannical Roman Empire.

Even though I express pessimism from time to time, I simply do not want to leave this world with the hideous Hyde having that horrendous howl.

So, when it rains, I especially reminisce my pleasant memories. It works as therapy no clinical psychologist can buy.

Having come from Bengal, where monsoon has always mushroomed our famed poetry, rain automatically turns on my memory switch. I read poetry. Think poetry. Translate poetry. Sing my favorite monsoon songs of Tagore and Nazrul Islam.

And then, more pleasant memories well up. Memories rush in like a pleasant, soul-soothing, mind-drenching rain shower.

Memories spring up like monsoon mushrooms sprouting randomly, in all unpredictable corners. From all unpredictable facets of life.

Pleasant memories bring back life. Wonderful memories kill off death, destruction and doom.

My Dr. Jekyll emerges as the ultimate victor.

Let’s share our beautiful memories.

Sincerely Writing,

Partha

(Writing from Chicago today. It’s raining here.)

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Mother’s Day: My Salute to the Working Mother

The Global Mother. Today. Salute to Her.

Mother’s Day: Whose Mother’s Day? For whom?

Mother’s Day is meaningless if it’s all about the shopping malls and restaurants and gifts and jewelry and wealth to show off. Mother’s Day is NOT about money. Mother’s Day is not an annual, self-gratifying event.

To me, Mother’s Day is about the working mother. To me, Mother’s Day is about the ever-sacrificing mother.

I hope people all over the world reflect on this Mother’s Day what this day is truly all about: mothers who are sacrificing their entire lives for their families, children and society. The ordinary mothers I’ve seen in my life — both in India, Bengal and here in the United States — who have become extraordinary by their enormous sacrifice, by their enormous desire to live with hope and dignity. Mother’s Day is all about the high optimism of working women all over the world — an optimism that gives this man-made depressing state of the world a ray of hope. In fact, I first saw this ray of hope in my mother’s eyes.

My mother worked at home. The global mother works at home…or outside…and at home. She works at factories, schools, farms, forests, mines, highrises, mud houses, offices, courts, restaurants, kitchens, groceries, laundries, sewers, sewing machines, toll booths, tramways, railways, hallways, hospitals…and at home. She takes care of the young babies. She takes care of the older babies. She don’t pause. She don’t take a break. She don’t rest. We often never think of her well being. We never pause and say: thank you, mother. We never say, thank you, mother, without you, I would never be.

We never say, mother, you live too.

Reshma rescued after 17 days!

In Dhaka, Bangladesh, Reshma was found alive today, seventeen days after the man-made  disaster when a huge building housing various multinational garment industries collapsed, killing more than a thousand poor workers. Thousands more — mostly young women working for these profiteering corporations and their corrupt bookies and agents and politicians — forever lost their limbs and livelihoods.

The continuing sweatshop fires and now this newest disaster have shown to the world how catastrophic the global economic tyranny has become. Wal-Mart, Gap, Disney, GE, Monsanto, Exxon-Mobil, Nike, H&M, Coca-Cola, McDonald’s, Nestle…with active help from IMF, World Bank, Wall Street and the big political parties…in the name of democracy…

Some of the pictures coming out of the building collapse quickly remind us of the historic destruction of Pompeii. The ancient natural disaster in Rome and today’s modern disaster in the Indian subcontinent have many striking resemblances. Buried bodies. Scalded bodies. Maimed bodies. Mangled bodies. Dead bodies piled up. Dead bodies of mothers, sisters, fathers, sisters, brothers, sons, daughters…hundreds of them. Thousands of them.

Two disasters. One natural. The other man-made. One gets scholars’ attention. The other gets media’s bypass. Yesterday’s Nero is hated. Today’s Neroes are let off the hook. Nobody questions.

Pompeii today: Dhaka, Bangladesh. Photo by Taslima Akhter.

In the midst of this horrifying, continuing march of death, Reshma survived. Today, brave rescue workers in Dhaka, Bangladesh pulled her out of the colossal concrete rubble.

To me, Reshma is the symbol of this motherhood. What strength! What resilience! Salute to the working, sacrificing, global mother.

Today, on this Mother’s Day, let’s take a pause and reflect on the role the global mother is playing against all odds, to beat back against the global onslaught of greed, profit and decided destruction of society and human values.

On this Mother’s Day, let’s sing a praise for the working, sacrificing mother all over the world.

Truth to my heart. Honest to my God.

Sincerely Writing,

Partha

Brooklyn, New York

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My Birthday, My Reasons to Live — the Unlocked Word

You must dive for it. With great passion and care.

I was about to title it: My Birthday, My Reasons to Live — the Final Word, to rhyme with the two articles I wrote on this subject: (1) the Foreword and (2) the Frontal Word.

Then I said to myself: why do I have to make it sound so sentimental, so full of melancholy? The Final Word? Really!! Why? Am I going to die or something? No siree, no way!

I wouldn’t want to write the final word — yet. Like, borrowing the cliché, I have miles to go before I sleep.

Meanwhile, quite a few readers — some of them close friends and longtime well-wishers — sent their own words of encouragement after they read the foreword and the frontal word (if you haven’t read them, please click on the two links above — thank you). They said I should write more about the many pleasant experiences I often talked about — memories both from India and the U.S. A few of them said, they didn’t know unlocking pleasant memories could be so fascinating. They said, fishing memories out of the abyss of oblivion could actually work like psychotherapy…or at least…a yoga exercise.

They said something I’ve said all along: pour your heart, be honest to yourself, write about the most sincere, true feelings, and never fear if they sound too personal. I’ve always said that if you can touch the bottom of that deep, dark ocean of your heart where the best memories are carelessly saved, scattered like the most precious pearls, with them you can buy anybody anywhere in this world — regardless of their language, lifestyle or matters of love.

In fact, some of these pearls are actually touchstones. You touch your chosen reader with that stone, and even the most indifferent, most stoic, most prosaic person would turn gold.

Try it. Close your eyes, go back down memory lane, and unlock the most precious moments of life.

Let’s walk this beautiful, happy journey together.

It’s like a dream!

(1) A new cricket ball — the Deuce ball we knew back in our school days — with the shiny, blood red color and yellow midrib stitches was something we didn’t get to touch too much. Only during precious interclass matches, interschool league games or our annual staff vs. students matches we got to use them. Rather, we were allowed to use them.

I had a very precious experience to play interschool summer cricket on Calcutta’s legendary Eden Gardens. I rolled the ball fast on the lush, green ground. It rolled on the silky-soft carpet as if someone poured liquid-crystal mustard oil on a just-baked corn cob and smeared it around the cob with his palm. Smooth, silent, intimate, sensual.

(2) Here’s one of my favorite. In your childhood, have your ever slept in the middle of a roomful of grownups who loved you like the pearl of their eyes? You must have. Think about it. I have. You sleep, as they say, like a child. You know you have no fear because these adults would be there for you, with you and around you as long as you sleep. You do not need to know what they’re talking about. You do not need to know what they’re laughing about. You have no reason to understand their language. The only language you know is the language of their love. You know you can sleep in complete peace in the midst of that loud, raucous crowd. You are safe.

(3) Try these now. How was your first experience to ride a bicycle? How was your first experience to catch a fish on your cheap fishing rod? (In my case, it was not even a regular fishing rod: someone put a white string with a small hook at the tip of a hard twig. But it was no different from a fancy fishing experience: once you catch a fish, you catch a fish!). Or, how

Crossing the Ganges under the Vivekananda Bridge.

was your first experience to smoke a cigarette hiding in the earthen alley behind your school building, just before the prayer bell rang? How was your first experience riding a country boat to cross the Ganges under the Swami Vivekananda bridge, and that too, in the middle of a Bengal monsoon with dark clouds hovering? How was your first experience to go deep on a motor boat into the dreaded Sundarban mangrove forest where the dreaded Bengal Tigers were absolutely, positively looking for an easy human prey? How was your first experience to pick up hundreds of multicolored shells off the vast Bay of Bengal beach? How was your first experience to get into the sanctum sanctorum of a thousand year-old Hindu temple where your can feel the presence of God everywhere? How was your first experience to walk into the Grotto in Nazareth, Palestine where Jesus Christ was born? For me, honest to God, it was a hair-raising moment.

So many such memorable moments of life! So many pearls, so many precious gems.

It would talk another lifetime to talk about this lifetime full of such experiences — one at a time.

But I do hope to do it. I hope to tell you more stories soon. Meanwhile, why don’t you unlock your own memories — for us?

Just close your eyes and go back down memory lane. It would actually work like psychotherapy…or at least…a blissful yoga exercise.

Try it.

Happily Reminiscing,

Partha

Brooklyn, New York

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Jagannath Temple in Puri.