Autobiography of a Naked Sadhu

I am a naked sadhu — a holy man.

I live in a cave — away from civilization.

I cannot reach out and touch the rest of the world — its people, pleasures and pain. In fact, I do not want to.

I have voluntarily exiled myself.

I have ash smeared all over my unclothed body. I have not took a shower for years. I have not had any cooked food for ages. I have not wore clothes for eons.

I have a smoking clay kiln with firewood from the surrounding forest. It burns day and night. The smoke fills up the entire cave. Nobody can see me from outside. Nobody has the guts to come in. There’s an invisible chalk circle.

I sleep whenever I wish. I wake up whenever I wish. I eat and drink whenever I wish. I follow no rules of civilization no more.

But I am still strong. I am strong physically. I am strong mentally. Unlike most others, I can clearly think. I can analyze.

I don’t speak much. But I can speak. I speak only when I want to speak. Nobody can make me speak. Nobody can make me do anything.

I do not need anything either from the so-called civilization. I am just fine without needs. A sadhu has no need. A sadhu has no greed.

People who I left behind believe I am sore, disillusioned and disturbed. They are right — more or less.

I am angry but not destructive. I am disillusioned but objectively so. I am disturbed because only the mindless can be undisturbed at the way things are going in that so-called civilization. Just the other day, they shot and killed women and children in their sleep, and burned their bodies. It was not honor killing.

Life has no meaning. Home has no meaning. Hope has no meaning.

I renounced life as I knew it because finally I woke up to realize that I have been cheated all my life — by the people who have power. I came to realize that they’ve always cheated me of my dues, dignity and dimes. I know, for sure, there is no democracy when it comes to honor and honesty for the ordinary. I was ordinary when I lived and worked in civilization. I did not see any honesty or honor coming my way.

I could be screaming violent about it. I could’ve exploded in anger at the injustice and insults I’ve experienced all my life. I could speak and write about all the lies, half truths and exclusions of truth.

But I won’t do it no more. I am a sadhu. I am a holy man. I do not believe in violence. I renounced pains and pleasures and people too. I renounced reaction.

I decided to withdraw — completely. It is an absolute renunciation.

Just outside of my cave, life is still dancing away. Just outside of my shelter, love is still waving at me. Lust is inviting me with open arms — in an explicit gesture of seduction. All the material pleasures — money, mauds and maids included — are eagerly waiting for me just outside. They’re using all their seductive mights to lure me away from this exile. Urvashis and Venuses, Ratis and Aphrodites are ready with sensuous movements of their oblique glances and wavy curves. The mortal bankers and earthly treasurers are waiting to shower me with their usurped mountains of dark, sinful cash. Military, mafia, machines and monsters and their pimps are also sending their vicious, bone-chilling threats to pull me out of this maximum isolation.

But I know, they will all fail to accomplish their mission.

I am now meditating my autobiography. I am a naked sadhu — a holy man. I am like Buddha in his deepest meditation under the Bodhi Tree — searching for the meaning of life.

Only in my case, I’m not searching for life. I have seen life.

I am content in my cave.

Do not disturb me.

You cannot disturb me.

______

Sincerely Writing,

Partha

Brooklyn, New York

Nightmare on Boyhood Street

Nightmare on Boyhood Street. My personal, real story on child beating and classroom violence in India. Please read (click on the link), comment and circulate. Thank you.

Nightmare on Boyhood Street

A special note: I’d like to take a moment to thank all the readers especially those who read it from places I otherwise have no way to reach. It is a matter of great comfort that this post was read in countries — other than India, USA, Canada and U.K. — such as Austria, Bangladesh, Egypt, Indonesia, Malaysia, Pakistan, the Philippines, Poland, Spain and Thailand (and some more). I believe the cruelty and violence I described in this blog is global, and there is enough reason to believe that we are trying to find solidarity here — to stop this brutality. Thank you, readers. I hope you take a moment to share it with others. -Partha

________________________________________________________________

Nightmare on Boyhood Street

Today, I remember a day from my school life. I was thirteen at that time – an eighth grader. It was Calcutta, India. It was perhaps a late summer day.

Calcutta’s name has now changed to Kolkata. Bombay has changed to Mumbai. Madras is now Chennai. A lot has changed in India since then…a lot…especially with the invasion of new shopping malls, MTV, McDonald’s, KFC and Pizza Hut.

Has child abuse changed in India? If your answer is yes, show me how. Give me some examples. If your answer is no, tell me why not.

Here is a real story from a real life.

Bang, bang, bang…

Punch, punch…

Whack, whack, blow…

Slap, slap, kick, thud…

A stout, muscular man in his forties held a young boy by the hair. He held him down with one hand. With his other hand, he beat up the boy mercilessly. He beat him up continuously. He punched him on his head and upper body. He slapped him fiercely, repeatedly, on his tender cheeks. He pulled his hair so hard that the boy was almost airborne. He pulled his earlobes so strongly that they were blood red. The slaps made reddish pink finger marks on his cheeks.

Along with the beating, the man groaned, ground his teeth, and grunted, “Huh, huh, huh…”

The boy took the abuse…the horrible beating. But he did not fight back. And he did not cry out, or ask for mercy. He did not ask him to stop. He did not show any visible sign of pain.

That made the man even angrier. He became more violent. He forced the boy to sit in an animal position, with his palms and knees touching the floor. The man then climbed up on him, and started to hit his back with his bent elbow. He also kicked him…or did he?

The violence went on for nearly ten, fifteen, twenty minutes…maybe, half an hour. The man lost his sense of time. The boy did too. He was nearly unconscious at this point.

The entire episode happened in a classroom. It happened in front of some forty or fifty frozen, traumatized, eighth-grade students. They watched it with horror;  some covered their faces. A few of them fell sick. Another boy urinated in his pants. One of their teachers was doing this to one of their classmates: they couldn’t believe their eyes! But none of them stood up or said a word against the barbarism. They watched it in complete silence…for the entire time.

Ashu Kar, a teacher in our famous, 150-year-old, missionary Scottish Church Collegiate School, was famous for his bad temper. There were a few other teachers who were even more notorious than him. They were never known for their quality of teaching or love for the students; they were only known for their dexterity to mercilessly, violently beat the kids.

But luckily, these men would not teach us, some of the best students. Back then, Scottish had merit-based promotion; they would always place us in Section A because we topped in the final exam. The abusive teachers would not take our classes. We were privileged to get some of the phenomenal educators of Calcutta whose presence in the classroom was like a gentle breeze coming off the ocean. Shyamadas Mukherjee of Mathematics, Bijan Goswami and Amiya Roy of Bengali, Rev. Santosh Biswas and Sudhendu Deuri of English, Nitya Sengupta of Chemistry, and Tarun Datta of Biology. Then, there was our famous headmaster A. R. Roy, known for his personality and poise. They were great teachers. We learned from them as eagerly and as fast as blotting paper would soak up water or ink – through every possible capillary of our young, inquisitive minds. We’d look forward to their classes.

The horrible hangmen would get the poor, “backward” students in Section C, D or E. We’d often hear horror stories from them. Even in elementary school, in fourth grade, there was severe student abuse. And I’m not even talking about the verbal abuse that was commonplace: teachers would make personal, intrusive, insulting, snide, negative remarks, constantly on a daily basis, to students that did not do well in tests or failed to turn in the homework; particularly, students who came from underprivileged families. Indian boys and girls were used to verbal abuse. At home, they got it from their fathers, uncles or neighbors. At school, they got it from teachers. The verbal insult and undermining would dash their self-esteem once and for all.

Now I’m talking about the more serious, inhumane, physical abuse. We the “good” boys from Section A came to know about them in middle school, since maybe, when we were in sixth or seventh grade.

Police beating a child

There were two men named Mr. Jana and Mr. Dafadar who took Section E classes only: boys who did the poorest in last year’s finals. They brought in class their own special teaching methods and tools. Every day, they’d enter the classroom, and before doing anything else, call out some students they decided the worst backbenchers. They’d line them up outside the classroom facing against the wall, with their arms all the way up, the length of the arm touching the wall, as if cops doing a shakedown on them. I’m convinced these teachers were cops or military men before they became teachers; they did it to their sixth, seventh or eighth-grade students exactly the way cops did it to suspected, frisked criminals. Or, in case of today’s India or USA, anyone the cops or military might suspect to be trouble makers.

Jana and Dafadar – I don’t remember which one was more dangerous – would then return to classroom, take attendance for the remaining students, give them some meaningless work to do – maybe, a bunch of arithmetic or English grammar problems from the textbook without showing them how to do it, and return to their “favorite” students waiting outside. Now, they’d stick out their personal, two-feet-long, wooden ruler scale or a long, bent cane, and spank the students real hard until they all cried out in pain. Some diehards would not budge; some of the kids were so used to it that they’d look the other way, and chuckle while the bad cops kept beating the others. If they’re lucky, they’re spared. If Jana and Dafadar caught them chuckling, they’d have some more special treat that day.

Some E or D students regularly cut classes. They also nicknamed the abusive teachers: Jana and Dafadar were called Jharudar or something, meaning the sweeper; alternately, it could mean the one who beats badly.

That was them. Then there was our Ashu Kar. In between, there were some more child molesters – big or small.

Why do people get so violent? Why are some people so cruel? What pleasure do some big, powerful men get out of beating young boys or girls who can’t resist or fight back?

Sigh…tears…sigh…tears…sigh…

Sincerely Writing,

Partha

Brooklyn, New York

Owner beating child worker at a textile factory

Monsoon Clouds Galore…in Dreams

 

Goddesses Descend from Tagore's Paradise

Monsoon Clouds Galore…in Dreams. Read more here. Click on the link. Let me know your thoughts. Please.

Monsoon Clouds Galore in Dreams

Monsoon Clouds Galore

Foreword: I am renewing my blog after quite a while. It is quite surprising — and pleasantly so — that OneFinalBlog is getting a substantial size of hits every single day even though I have not been posting new stuff. Maybe, maybe, my readers, friends and sympathizers keep finding my articles worth exploring. So, a BIG thank you. Please send your comments.

The following article is the first part of a long chapter — one of more than a dozen chapters — I just wrote for my new book project on Rabindranath Tagore. It’s about my feelings about the great poet and musician, and that too, sitting here in the U.S. for over twenty-five years. These feelings are real, they are precious, and they are raw too. I invite you to let me know what your feelings are — after you read it.

P.S. — I’m also inviting you to listen to the Tagore songs I just recorded in December-January when I was in India. You can get a copy of my double-CD album Aro Ektu Bosho at major music stores in Calcutta, or if you’re in the U.S., from me. Thank you. (You can click on the link Aro Ektu Bosho to hear a few of my recorded songs.)

______

It was three in the morning. Long Island, New York.

Last night, music came upon me
But you were not there to see

There was a big rainstorm. Wind was blowing like crazy. The American flag atop the high pole was swinging in fierce motion. The normally calm ocean was roaring restlessly.

I came to teach my usual, weekend labor workshop and stayed over at this simple retreat – the way I do it every weekend. This year, I’m teaching my American students global economics. It was three in the dark, eerie morning. I woke up dreaming about a song – a Bengali song. It was a Tagore song.

Make me anew, with new adorns on me
Adore me, adorn me, adore me too

It was a song from the famous dance drama Chitrangada – the Tagore-adopted Mahabharata tale of the warrior Manipur princess and her mind-body transformation. The couple of lines kept coming back…over and over again…as if I was sitting in a crowd of audience where the drama was happening…as if I was taking part in the drama…singing…in front of me beautiful, young Bengali women were dancing away on the stage…with their silvery ankle-bells jingling… make me anew…with new adorns on me…as if I was hearing in my dreams the celestial voice of Suchitra Mitra the great Tagore exponent – her magical, pure, clear, fountain-like voice.

And it blew me away and woke me up.

I sat there on my bed for the next few minutes … as if I was possessed. And I loved it.

Why would it happen this way? Why would such emotions rock me back and forth, every now and then? Why would they drift me off reality? Who would care to know about these emotions, these flooding-over dreams? Reality sank in…or did it?

The next morning, just before class, when my American students stood up to say the pledge of allegiance, “One nation under God,” etc., I stood up too. But in my mind the song was still swirling around…make me anew, with new adorns on me…adore me…adorn me – I almost laughed. So glad they didn’t get to see what was going on in my mind! It’s nothing new.

Goddesses Descend from Tagore's Paradise

These emotions taking over my mind, living here in America, are nothing new. I sang many such songs while driving on the high-speed highway – with my fingers tapping away the rhythms right on the steering wheel. My car was speeding at sixty, seventy, even eighty miles per hour – one hundred twenty…thirty…forty kilometers – with absolutely no scope for mistakes, when it’s a question of life and death – the emotions and the songs came over and seized me. My eyes were spot on reality; yet my mind was drifting away in the paradise of Tagore – in his words and his tunes. Unseen tears kept flowing in an unexpressed pain; yet there was so much happiness, so much bliss – flowers bloomed, flutes blew, and harps harped.

Throughout this entire exile from India, Rabindranath Tagore’s songs, Jibanananda Das’ poetry, Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay’s stories and Satyajit Ray’s movies always gave us refuge – as if a big and strong, full-foliage banyan tree in the middle of a huge, barren, waterless field. They filled our hearts, they fulfilled our lives, and they gave us shelter. They kept our souls alive. And Tagore has always been the primary shelter among all the shelters.

Not just in this quarter-century immigrant life; he has been like it ever since I was a child playing rubber ball on the dusty streets of Kolkata. I still remember a little about Tagore’s centenary celebrations in India. I was barely a child. I vaguely remember my kindergarten school Shishu Niketan – perhaps – staged Tagore’s the Land of Cards at Subhas Bose-founded Mahajati Sadan auditorium. I was there – a dhoti and kurta-clad child – holding onto my parents. Thrills came upon me, just the way a child gets thrills over his entire body – to know the unknown, to feel a little bit of love in his little heart. He gets the first sense of romance. He starts believing – in something good, great, divine. He starts to understand the beautiful.

Could it really be that “without me, your love would be meaningless?” Am I really this precious?

But, nobody had told me about it before! Who knows, maybe, it’s true! I feel amazed – what if it is really true?

There would be a small Tagore birthday celebration on the rooftop of a spiral-alley, dank-dingy Kolkata house. A cluster of tuberoses in an old, discolored brass urn, a bunch of incense sticks, and on a bedsheet-covered chair stood a garlanded, framed painting of a pensive Tagore in his familiar, long robe. We had dances, we had poetry, and we had his songs. In a totally unknown, falling-apart neighborhood of North Kolkata – a place that nobody wants to know about – small children coming from small, poverty-stricken families sang Tagore’s finest songs; they performed parts of his internationally-known dance dramas with the highest possible dexterity – Chitrangada, Land of Cards, or Game of Illusions.

There was a group of some twenty-five or thirty audience members sitting on palm-leaf mattresses laid down on the rooftop. They were all parents, siblings, cousins and friends of the performers. A local college principal took the coveted position of the event’s ceremonial president. A fatherless, teenager boy from an extremely impoverished family put icing on the cake by reciting Tagore’s celebrated, long poem Bring Me Back Now – straight from memory. What an upright way to chant, what a firm, clear pronunciation! He didn’t have enough to eat – that’s how poor they were. His poor mother literally begged from door to door for some rice to feed her young son; she managed to admit him to a middle school where the college principal agreed to pay his monthly school fees.

Where did this destitute boy get this strength and courage to recite Tagore’s major verse of strength and courage? Who would ever remember such talents, who would ever search for such hidden treasures? Amazing that this poor, underfed boy from a penniless family got to know Tagore; he was able to take a fearless dip in the unending ocean of Tagore’s words.

The sun and the moon and the celestial stars
All my life they sent me their light
Rays of your blessings, and beautifully bright
Oh Lord! Oh Lord!

All my life your words sent me bright rays
your blessings
Your songs gave me reasons to live.

Tuberoses

Sincerely Writing,

Partha

Brooklyn, New York

###

India Today — New Show ‘n Tell

India…Now…Today
<<<Click on Link>>>

Dear Friends:

The above link is a collection of my new photos I brought back from India. I hope you have time to browse over the pictures and read the captions and descriptions I added to each photo. This is my newest India show ‘n tell. It’s incomplete and perhaps a little personal in nature. But my blog, as you know, has always been personal in nature.

A Lazy December Afternoon

I’m now back in New York, U.S. after a two-month-long trip. It was a rewarding experience.

Some of you — especially those of you who are regular readers of my blog — might know that during the trip from early December to early February, I have published a double-CD album of twenty Tagore songs entitled “Aro Ektu Bosho” (Stay a Little Longer) — Srishti Cassette, Calcutta, January 2012. If you are interested to get a copy here in the U.S., please contact me. I have posted a few promotional songs off the CD at this free link at http://soundcloud.com/partha-banerjee-nyc . Happily, so far, the link got over 1100 hits.

I’m now planning to perform with my recorded songs for promotional and/or recreational purposes. In India, I had three such performances where I sang and also talked about the subjects of global cultural erosion and kitsch. You can visit this link for one such talk I presented at New Delhi’s Jamia Milia Islamia University. Click on Tagore, Culture and Kitsch. My musical performances almost always have accompanying talks.

In India, I have also given talks on subjects such as global economy, democracy, human rights, media, immigration and yes, science too (I was a biologist in my past life, in case you didn’t know). Honestly, it was quite exhausting to travel across India to present the talks; at one point, I fell sick. Still, at the end of the day, I felt happy that I was able to interact with so many Indians — young and old alike — who were willing to hear about the topics, in conversational forums.

Two publishers — one in New Delhi and the other in Calcutta — also expressed interest to publish my original articles and translations. Now it’s time for me to find the time to meet their expectations.

Who Writes...Who Buys...and Why?

I have also resumed working at my regular workplace as an educational program developer and teacher. Starting mid-April, I begin teaching our eight-month-long interactive labor workshops out in Long Island, which is a major part of my job.

Thanks for your time to read my little update. I hope to stay in touch with you and work together in the coming days. I promise to write much more about my experience on this blog when I catch a little breath and settle down. I hope you come back to read my blog, frequently.

Meanwhile, please visit my New India Show ‘n Tell. Let me know what you think.

 

Sincerely Writing,

Partha

Brooklyn, New York

Tracking Tagore in Trance

Tagore Music His Way

So, my Tagore recording began, the esraj and flute and sitar and piano churned out the great poet’s music from paradise, and I couldn’t hold back my tears in front of some unknown people sitting in the studio.

Embarrassing! Geez! I said. Then I thought, heck, so what, I’m not doing anything wrong! In fact, I’m doing it just right. This is exactly how it should be. Anything else would be disrespectful and phony.

Yeah. But that was later. Early in the morning, when it was quite unusually cold and foggy, I arrived right on time at the doorstep of the North Kolkata studio — only to find out that the local cable company already had dug a long trench off the concrete alley to repair some faulty fixtures underground; they said it would take at least a week to finish the work and cover up the trenches. Dirt and debris piled up on the two sides of the trench, and you’d have to walk like a rope walker over and along the hill, balancing yourself every step of the way to reach your destination.

In the Trenches...

Which meant that the musicians and their instruments would have to walk the entire length of the alley — about a quarter mile off the main road — to enter the studio; given some of these musicians and their instruments are very expensive and famous (and heavy too), they would not like it a lot. Great! I’m definitely in Kolkata now, it seemed.

My friend, brother and director of the entire recording project Alak Roychoudhury took me inside Jupiter Studio — a few ground-floor rooms remodeled and insulated out of an old-fashioned, half-dilapidated house on Beniatola Street — and to our surprise, we found out that the lead composer of my music accompaniment was already waiting, along with his chief hands. Astonishing! (And they always complained that Kolkata was sloppy and Bengalis didn’t know professionalism!)

Rahul Chatterjee — the young lead composer and an eminent sitar player — and I had a phone conversation a couple of nights before on some of the ideas I had for my Tagore singing. I found his thoughts on arranging Tagore music to be overlapping with mine. I was brimming with confidence; I was settled down with reassurance.

In a few minutes, defying Kolkata’s infamous lack of punctuality, all the musicians showed up right on time: the keyboard, tabla, percussion, sarod, and the flutist who was probably a teeanger (at least he looked like one — the second day, another noted flutist took his place). Alak whispered to me that the kid was now one of the top three flutists even in this culturally light-years-ahead city where you could find at least one famous musician almost on every other block. The tabla and percussion players, they said, were regular accompaniments to celebrity singers like Swagata Lakshmi Dasgupta and Ajoy Chakraborty. The keyboard player frequently worked on major TV shows.

Now, I was feeling a little bit…like…you know…nervous.

Rahul Chatterjee and his magic musicians

And then, the bespectacled, young, modest, I-mean-business-looking owner of the studio and digital sound-recordist-cum-editor Mintoo Babu took his seat at the console, and after a small message of greetings to me, Alak and the group, turned on his complex equipment.

Click…tick…tock…Click…tick…tock…the 3×3-Dadra…at a 148-clocked-speed…the electronic click to keep the perfection rhythm set off, the humble esraj player put his head down, and pulled his wow-bow across the strings; then, Rahul Chatterjee immediately assumed his commanding position on the floor of the studio, and Alak flipped the pages of his Swara-Bitaan (Tagore’s own musical scores) because he would initially dub the songs along with the tracking of the arranged accompaniment. It was decided that I’d rest my voice for the actual dubbing when the tracking would be all done. (That was in itself celebrity status for me).

It was decided that the first song would be Tagore’s “Amar je gaan tomar parash pabe…” (the song of mine that touches you). Alak, Rahul and I pre-selected twenty Tagore songs, out of which four would be ad lib. The rest were more structured based on various talas (beats): three-three-beat Dadra, four-four-beat Kerwa, three-four-beat Tewra, or six-six-beat Sashthi. You could of course exercise a small latitude of poetic freedom even in his more structured songs (and eek out a few unscored voice modulations), according to liberal exponents like the famous maestro Debabrata Biswas…or…me; however, there is major controversy and debate on that. Ask anyone in this Tagore-loving city.

Anyway…

So, here it is one more time. Now, my Tagore recording really began, the esraj and flute and sitar and piano churned out the great poet’s music from paradise, and I couldn’t hold back my tears in front of some unknown people sitting in the studio.

I have heard and sung these songs many times…practically since my childhood. But sitting here in this studio, with these fantastic musicians going out of their way to arrange and play the accompaniment for …ME (!)… so that I could sing my best possible rendition of Tagore music…and that it would be a lifetime privilege for someone like me who lives twelve thousand miles away from this city of art, music, culture, society and friends…who would die for a reason to die for art, music, culture, society and friends…but there’s no reason to do it over there…at least not for Tagore or Bangla language…and therefore, now it’s a pressure-cooker emotion ready to “explode” any time…

So, it “exploded.” But it was restrained, subdued, subtle. Because we had already been simmered, cooked and softened in Tagore. We could not be wild, extravagant and loud. We were not Bollywood or Hollywood. We were civilized and progressive and humane. We refuse kitsch. We embrace the soul.

Tears flew freely. I took a dip in that sacred river of emotion.

And then, I was ready to interpret and express the celestial music and message of Tagore…musically…with love…with great care…with respect…and passion.

Here’s my first song…I hope it touches you…

Mintoo Babu and Alak...thank you brothers

Click…tick…tock…Click…tick…tock…there begins a deep, voluminous, heart-wrenching orchestra with the deep tabla and soft percussion…the vibrant vibe off the keyboard…the essential chord off the esraj…rising up and above from the studio floor…filling up the air…completely overwhelming mysenses…

Oh God…how can I thank you for this moment!

Sincerely Writing,

Partha

(Now in Kolkata — the city of Tagore, Vivekananda, Sister Nivedita, Ram Mohan Ray, Derozio and Satyajit Ray)

The Great Poet and Musician

Kolkata Makes Love to Me…It’s Pure Bliss

That's when I fell in love with her...Oh God...was it sweet!

[I dedicate this post to the legendary liberation struggle of Bangladesh and the unsung, victorious freedom fighters.]

I wrote: “Kolkata makes loves to me. Oh God, how can I thank you for bringing me back to her?”

(In case you don’t know, Kolkata is Calcutta — the media-distorted British-raped “City of Joy.” We’ll slowly talk about the violence and abuse.)

Obviously, Calcuttans — of my type — were fascinated with my fascination. Praises poured in. Enchanting…I said to myself…not just the idea of making love to her…but also the idea that other beautiful people like me loved the idea of making love to her…and that too, without ever getting out of your mind…and your dreams!

Inspired by admiration and adulation from fellow-lovers, I went on and wrote:

“Food, music, film, dance, fun, literature, politics, science, arts and what not…in spite of all the problems and stupid politicians and promoters today, it’s just incredible. And I’m not even talking about her GLORIOUS history.”

Again, confetti and claps…a whole bunch of them. This lovemaking is sure catching on…and catching on fire. I knew it would!

The mezzanine room mother left behind...

And then, a sister, who left Bombay and Delhi to live in this much-maligned city, wrote:

(By the way, this travelogue is not about comparing anything with anything…in case you think I’m being biased against your place. I may be biased for my place, but I’m definitely not biased against yours. Or, for that matter, against my second first city New York.)

“For me, Kolkata is like my mother, whom, despite all her weaknesses and ailments I love and care for….no matter where I stay, live or what I do, the umbilical connect will always be there.”

Now, that’s also very true. She pulled my ear — just like one of the many middle-school teachers who did it to me many times over many years — and put it in perspective. Of course, she is right! And I am right too! Now, how can I resolve this dilemma?

Is Kolkata my mother…or is she “Je t’aime mon amie?”…Like…“ami tomay eto bhalobashi, sakhi…”

(By this time, other Calcuttans — probably a few of my detractors included — started throwing confetti and claps the sister’s way. Hey, I thought, I need to do something to fix it — now — or she’s gonna steal the show. And yet, I cannot ever lie. This is way too delicate and honest to be cunning and dishonest about.)

Then, I came up with this brilliant reflection. I wrote:

“So wonderful, sister.” [Note: while doing an important debate, in front of an eager audience, you always want to compliment the opposition -- that's a little political trick I learned years ago...here in Calcutta; your sentimental (Calcuttan-type) detractors now pay attention to you too. Who knows: you now might get a few flying kisses.]

So, I wrote:

“Bengal is my mother. Bangladesh is my mother. It doesn’t matter where I live now. I’ve written about it in the memoir I’m putting together. My mother is an important part of it. Kolkata, on one hand, I feel more like, was my mother when I was little, and on the other hand, it became like my first girlfriend when I became a teenager. It took on various forms and shapes at different stages of my life.”

[Fantastic! Ain't it? What a brilliant observation...and that too...one hundred and ten percent genuine...like Tagore...cross my heart.]

The legendary Kolkata Book Fair is coming up...and I shall be there...

To draw in accolades from supporters and opposition alike, I explained:

“So, when I say Kolkata makes love to me, I think about the teeanger-time Kolkata when my senses started to bloom like a bunch of tuberose, with its radiating beauty and fragrance. It comes back every time I return here. That’s an incredible feeling: it wraps me around and won’t let me go.”

[By this time, I observed I managed to steal the limelight away from the opposition...and into my direction. I knew I was on a roll.]

Charged and cheered up, I announced:

“…and then I go back to my old mezzanine flat in old North Calcutta where my mother first walked me to school, and where I returned one day in second grade with lit-up eyes to tell Ma I stood first in class, and she was waiting for me standing in that little two-feet wide balcony — I feel like I’ve come back to my mother again. This is indescribable. This is pure spiritual experience.”

End of debate. Humble, sweet victory…and I knew it. My opposition said something good too in her closing remarks:

“Yes…Kolkata, Bengal, Bangladesh – same speak. Just as the love for one’s mother is unconditional, so too, my love for the place…I accept her as she is….she beckons; she attends to you with all the love and care possible, in the humblest of ways…and when it’s time to bid her goodbye, her memories persist and fill the air with a scent that keep your senses going till the very end….I can identify with your feelings – it’s about a strong sense of belonging..indescribable, indeed!”

In a debate, and that too of this sort, you don’t want to show your emotions too much — in front of the audience. So, I didn’t do it. Did I weep and tremble later? Well…that’s a secret I would not divulge here. You can privately call me to find out.

I can only say to you this much: this is the city and this is the joy…for me (as opposed to some junk Kiplingers or later rapists).

Come along with me to know more about the smiles and tears and fights and fears and poetry and prose and jasmine, tuberose…that Kolkata is to offer to the entire world…even today…even after so much violence and hurt!

Kolkata makes love to me. It’s pure bliss. It’s spiritual. It’s like taking a long, relaxing dip in Mother Ganges. You emerge clean.

Take a long, relaxing dip in Kolkata.

Sincerely Yours,

Partha Banerjee

(Living in Kolkata now)

My own city of joy...you wouldn't believe how sensual and romantic it is!

India Show ‘n Tell: Like It or Not…

First week in India and here’s my newest show ‘n tell. I’m going to show you some photos and suggest a short description for each. I invite you to take a close look at them, and come up with your own “tell.” Or, you can just go with my take on them.

I am still not completely out of the massive jetlag; it happens when you fly from one side of the globe to the other in a relatively short time. Your body takes time to recover from the silent trauma and adjust to the local clock. It normally takes about a week to completely get out of it. For me, it’s been five days, and my body clock is slowly realizing that 1 A.M. is actually 1 A.M. India time and not 2.30 P.M. New York Time. The older you are, your stupid body clock takes longer to adjust to reality.

Therefore, I’m not in the greatest state of mind to write something long. Yet, I also feel that unless I write about things I’ve already noticed in my first week in India — however briefly — I may not remember them all. More importantly, considering the unbelievable, ever-shifting mosaic of events one can easily encounter here on a daily basis, more pictures will quickly show up taking over the older ones. So, let me put something together to show you what I’ve gone through in five days around here.

I leave it up to you to decide if these observations are worth anything. Please write your comments freely, would you?

This Forbes-10 Guy Built His House (and Sucked the Water Table Dry for the Entire Neighborhood)

Gateway of Terror, Courtesy Corrupt Congress Crooks

Tata, Toyota, Suzuki...and an Elephant too!

Bombai Se Aya Mera Dost -- en route to Pune

Pleasant Plastic Landfill -- Four Star Front View (they charge Rs. 4,500 only for each night)

Look Ma We Can Do It!

Working Lunch India (Non-McDonalds Style)

Just Look Closely! What D'Ya Think?

So Close to God We Can Almost Touch Him!

Nobody Minds the Status Quo: Is It Really Good That Way?

The Slums, the Dogs and the Millionaires

I’m leaving for India. Are you interested?

India in Color

I’m leaving for India. Are you interested?

A few days ago, I wrote the above question as my Facebook status update. Happily, a sizable number of people — both longtime friends and new friends (and some relatives) wrote back warmly and positively. They all said they were interested.

About twenty people either “liked” my question, or wrote something in response. If you know how Facebook status updates work, it’s ever-fleeting: it doesn’t stay for too long on a regular Facebook user’s home page. Other status updates come up from other friends, or you post a new update, and they all scroll down the home page one by one, taking over and pushing the old update into oblivion. Life’s new scenarios come forward, and old stories quickly become just that: old stories.

What many Facebook regulars do these days is that they repost their old status updates that they consider to be important or noteworthy. Then, people who you wanted to draw attention from, and who had missed it the first time, would now have a chance to chance upon it, and comment to satisfy your yearning, or some say, ego.

So, following that state-of-the-art new media conversational process, indeed those twenty first-installment friends and their gratifying responses satisfied me. Now, reader of my blog, if you are not on my Facebook, I couldn’t give out the names of those responders for privacy’s sake; and I sincerely invite you to join my now-wow-list of three-thousand-plus friends. Meanwhile, I’m sharing here *some of the responses* I received on that thread, without ID-disclosing the responders.

Response #1. “Yeah…. Am eagerly awaiting your arrival……”

Response #2. “In a free ride? Yes!!!” (she’s from Australia: their sense of prepositions is kinda outbackish

Response #3. “Terribly so.” (I’m sure she meant well a kind-hearted person, I know)

Response #4. — Here’s a good one: “What if all your 3179 friends show interest?” (I’d be overjoyed if they did

Response #5 — “This side of the Suez Canal, we are all waiting…:) ” — I know this person. Goodhearted, kind and warm and all, but she’s always been poor in Geography. She got mixed up between India and Egypt

[and so on...]

Then, after a while, a different response came in. My friend Bill wrote:

“In the past, I had no great interest in seeing India, probably because I coiuld not separate from all the movie images of a British-tainted India. But you have shown me a different perspective, and would be VERY interesting to see it through those eyes, though I doubt the Indian office of tourism would be thrilled. However, the timing is not good for a trip. But I hope yours is fufilling, personally and professionally.”

Gunga Din to Indiana Jones to Slumdog to Born Into Brothels: the Distortion is On

Very insightful, indeed! Let’s see what and how many elements of interest can we find in Bill’s insightful comment. (By the way, I hope I’m not putting my good friend Bill on the spot. I’m just using his thoughts as a boiler plate, so to speak, to cook up some more thoughts that immediately come to my mind, whenever I see such comments; and I do it over and over again with high appreciation.)

Element One. — “In the past, I had no great interest in seeing India.” — Okay, no problem. Easy to understand. But why not?

Bill immediately explains it.

Element Two. — “probably because I could not separate from all the movie images of a British-tainted India.” — So, even good friends like Bill who keep an open mind and want to learn about other civilizations and societies, in this case outside of the U.S., have in their minds deeply ingrained, and probably fake, twisted and distorted, negative images of India courtesy mainstream movies. Jungle Book, Gunga Din, and the other Rudyard Kipling genre movies and novels have always done a great job to keep the Western audience misinformed about India and her people. Then, much later, Indiana Jones movies (Lost Ark, etc.) have done it even better. And, finally, who can forget about the modern-marvel-misinformation of City of Joy, Slumdog Millionaire or an Oscar movie I personally worked in — Born Into Brothels?

Element Three. — “But you have shown me a different perspective.” Aww, thanks, bro. Only if you could rub that onto my Indian would-be-rich-and-famous friends who would perhaps have a totally different perspective about your perspective about my perspective. (Now…read it one more time…if you please

Element Four. — “would be VERY interesting to see it through those eyes.” Bill means my eyes. I know. That’s a smarty-pants way to avoid expenses and time and hassle to visit India. I get it, Bill. You want to visit India at my expense, especially when I’ll be a couple of thousand dollars poor and at least a dozen pound smaller (sicker) coming back from eating carbon monoxide and lead from taxicab exhausts and sidewalk chicken rolls. Nice thought, Bill

Element Five. — “though I doubt the Indian office of tourism would be thrilled.” Now, that’s not fair. I was planning to write about the romantic-sensual-erotic side of India too in my weekly write-ups, including vivid descriptions of Konark and Khajuraho stone dems (google images) and Kolkata, Delhi and Mumbai diners. I don’t see any red flags raised by Indian tourism offices! Now, when I start writing about non-erotic subjects such as politics or poverty, that’s a different story. But I never plan to mix them up; in fact, I hope to make some little money selling my hot tourism stories, with no political masala, whatsoever.

I also plan to write more about the Indian women and how they have touched me — remember I told you that would be an ongoing story? Here’s your chance to get back on that mold. Promise it’s going to be exciting…at least fun. People tell me they liked the previous episodes.

So, that’s it for now. Tired and exhausted of finishing up long list of to-do’s before I leave. Excited and thrilled that I’m going back to a place I know so well and care so deeply about.

I hope you keep in touch with me on a regular basis. I plan to write, as I said before, at least on a weekly basis. On India. On the land of Tagore. On the land of Kabir. On the land of Sri Chaitanya, Buddha, Nanak, Tulsi Das and Mirabai.

I plan to write about the live reincarnations of the above legends too. You’ll know what I’m talking about.

I Look Forward to Meet You

I’m leaving for India. Are you interested?

By the way, I never really told you and you never asked this simple question: interested in WHAT?

Tell me now, when you get a chance.

Sincerely Writing,

Partha

Brooklyn, New York