Death Of A Bengali Poet

“Mon bhalo nei, mon bhalo nei, mon bhalo nei

Keu ta bojhe na, sokoli gopon, mukhe chhaya nei

Chokh khola, tobu chokh buje achhe, keu ta dekhe ni

Protidin kaate, din kete jaay, ashay ashay ashay ashay ashay ashay…”

Feelin’ blue, feelin’ blue, feelin’ blue

No one knows, all hidden, eyes too

Eyes open, yet closed, no one saw

Days fly, nights fly, hopin’ over hopin’ over hopin’ over hopin’ …

________________________________________________________

Now, this poet made me blue many times. He always had this habit of making his readers blue. He did that again, one last time this morning, when I got the news of his death. I wept one last time, for him.

I hope this is the last time I did it, for him. I hope this is the last time he did it, to me. We are too old for such corny stuff, right? Weeping and all? I know he wouldn’t like it. I wouldn’t like it either. It’s time to grow up. So, this is just once, only once.

“I won’t cry, I won’t cry, no, I won’t shed a tear.”

Our ever-young Bengali poet Sunil Ganguly — more formally Sunil Gangopadhyay if we used his Sanskrit name — is no more. But because I’m writing this blog sitting in New York, ten thousand miles away from Calcutta, Bengal, India where he so suddenly passed away, and I’m writing this blog primarily for an English-speaking audience across the world, I prefer to use his Anglicized last name Ganguly. Sunil Ganguly. Like the way the Western “user-friendly” world forced me to use my Anglicized last name Banerjee, abandoning my Sanskrit last name Bandyopadhyay. In this life in exile (however hard I try to be a part of a global world, pretending this exile really doesn’t matter to me that much and that I’ve really become a universal citizen), there are times when you feel how enormously these musicians and artists and poets and authors and filmmakers and humanists matter to you.

Their departures stun you, shake you to the core. Because they have always been such an important, inseparable part of your own existence. No matter if you’ve ever met them or talked to them. No matter how much physical distance you’ve had with them, with no possibility to meet them or talk to them at all. They have always been with you — as a friend, as a brother, as a sister, as a mentor, as a family member. As if you could always talk to them, had there been an opportunity, about their most recent novel, music CD, or maybe, the rise and fall of the American empire…or even, the place in Calcutta where they have the best Indian Chinese, biryani and spicy fish…and in Sunil’s case, a healthy dose of a mighty-hard drink. (And I thought those drinks could do no harm to his ever-young heart!)

These are people that have always been a part of your identity.

Sunil Ganguly, whom I actually met once and talked twice here in New York at the power-poet-couple Jyotirmoy-Meenakshi Duttas’ place, was one such personality. The persona Sunil Ganguly and the poet Sunil Ganguly have always been a part of my cultural consciousness. From that point of view, he was as close to me as Rabindranath Tagore, Nazrul Islam, Satyajit Ray, Bibhutibhushan Banerjee, Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, Maxim Gorky, Victor Hugo, Shakespeare, Robert Frost, Bob Dylan, Beatles, Bob Marley, Mahashweta Devi, Ritwik Ghatak or Mrinal Sen.

Sunil Ganguly was the big brother who taught me how to fall in love, make love and hurt in love. He taught me how to imagine a woman’s love. He taught me how to write love letters. He taught me how to grow up — loving and hurting, and then loving again. He taught me how to hope…and imagine hope.

This is a milieu of a consciousness that made me the “me” that I am today. This half century-old me. If they were not with me all along, I would not have had this identity, this brain, this belonging to this human, thinking, moving, seeing life.

When they leave my familiar world, one after the other, they also take away a part of “me” forever with them. Their departure is truly like severing with a limb or an organ. It’s excruciatingly painful — physically and emotionally, and it’s extremely difficult to deal with it their post-departure. Especially if you do not go through a major therapy… and rehabilitation. And sitting here ten thousand miles away, there is hardly any rehabilitation. The society of familiar people with familiar, shared emotions, knowledge and values that you need for the rehabilitation is simply absent. Here I write about poet Sunil Ganguly, Tagore, Satyajit Ray, et al., and you know you’re not making your readers cry. You bereave — all by yourself.

Therefore, the tragedy and the pain and trauma associated with that tragedy remains with you forever. It literally debilitates you. You’re now dealing with a lost limb or organ, with nothing to make up for it. Worse, you know this is not the first time it happened to you, and neither would it be the last time.

Tagore died way before my birth. My mother died a painful death when I was a young man in my early twenties causing major, lifelong bereavement. But at least I was back there, in the midst of a supportive society. Satyajit Ray’s death in 1992 and Suchitra Mitra the Tagore singer’s death in January of 2011 touched me, impacted me this way. The news of Sunil Ganguly’s death this morning was a similar jolt…perhaps a bigger jolt because first, he was so forever young…as if he was born in 1974 and not in 1934. Most importantly, deep inside, I never thought Sunil Ganguly could actually die. I never thought he would be old one day, and die.

But he did. This is the first time when he kind of let me down. Well, at least he didn’t lay sick in some nursing home bed with tubes coming out of his nose and arms and legs to keep him alive. No, he would refuse to wear those tubes and artificial ways to sustain “life.” He would refuse to be a part of such artificiality.

Sunil, or Apu?

A Bengali, Indian poet just died in Calcutta — ten thousand miles away from New York where I live. I know in the next day or two, millions of Bengalis from both the West and East sides of the artificial border would pour down on the streets of Bengal to pay their last respect to the ever-young poet. I won’t be there. I was not there when they paid their last respect to Satyajit Ray or Suchitra Mitra. Or, Tagore in 1941. No, I won’t be a part of that million-man march accompanying the poet and his mortal remains to the Hindu crematorium.

But I can only imagine. Sunil Ganguly was one of the major imagination teachers I’ve had. I can imagine.

I’ll show to the world that even though he kind of let me down, I did not let him.

I can still imagine, even in this dreaded exile. I can still hope.

I can still imagine that even in this dreadful, horrific time with the wars and violence and bombing and beating and droning and waterboarding, a beautiful, rain-soaked sun is slowly rising in the Eastern sky.

It don’t matter if you’re in exile or not.

_________________________________________

Jodi nirbasan dao

Ami osthe anguri chhoabo

Ami bishpan kore more jabo

If you send me in exile

I’ll touch my ring to my lips

I’ll take poison and die

Bisanno aloy ei Bangladesh

Nodir shiyore jhuke pora megh

Prantare diganta nirnimesh

E amari sare tin haat bhumi

This Bangladesh in a pale dim light

Clouds hover on river banks

Borderless horizon of bountiful fields

This is indeed my three and a half yards of space

Jodi nirbasan dao

Ami osthe anguri chhoabo

Ami bishpan kore more jabo

If you send me in exile

I’ll touch my ring to my lips

I’ll take poison and die

Dhankhete chap chap rakto

Eikhane jhorechhilo manusher ghaam

Ekhono snaner aage keu keu kore thake nodike pronam

Ekhono nodir buke mochar kholay ghore luthera, pherari

Shohore, bondore eto agni-brishti

Brishtite chikkon tobu ek-ekti aparup bhor

Blood splatters on green paddy fields

Men shed their sweats right here

Even today some bow heads to the river

Before they take a dip, bath

Pirates speed their float boats down the river

Towns and ports with relentless rain of fire

Yet, rain shower emerges one or two indescribable, beautiful dawns

________________________________________________________

Sincerely (and Sadly) Writing,

Partha

Brooklyn, New York

###

To Indira Gandhi

By Sunil Gangopadhyay (1934-2012)

Dear Indira, please don’t visit the Gujarat flood
Sitting by your airplane window

It’s a dangerous game
Angry waters raged and uprooted train tracks
Bridges collapsed, scattered kids near the belly of
dead animals
An old man’s eyeglasses float down the waves
Man found desperate friendship with treetops
These are fragments of the sight – a type of truth
Partial, yet too intense
These partials truths indeed become primary
During these terrible times

Indira, dear girl, you must not forget
Even if you cried out of your cloud castle
It would never resonate with the collective tragedies
down there
Your chapped lips
For how long they did not get streaks of a kiss
Dark, deep fatigue visible under your eyes
Faces bear marks of a dejected loverBut you chose this path yourself
With no more ways to return no more
Indira dearest, please do not fly by North Bengal skies
Or those of Assam,
sitting by your airplane window

It is a dangerous game
Yet I warn you one more time –
You look down and find miles of barrenness
You see rules of nature and ruthless rulelessness
And their great devastation

You see huge currents of new flood waters
As if the cloudy sky lay upon the land, upside down
Interspersed by houses like small islands
Lush green heads of trunkless trees

Seeing the sight of those floods
Some day, Indira, these words might slip off your tongue:
“Oh, how beautiful it is!”

 

###

Still Dreaming…in Bangla.

One Last Tagore Birthday Before My Death

Satyajit Ray, an agnostic, thought Tagore was like a God.

It took me a long time to decide on the title. I thought about it and thought it over.

I read it once. I read it twice. I paused and read it again. Finally, I decided. This is it. This is the title.

No, I don’t want to make it sound corny. That’s not the purpose. I truly feel that it could be one last time I get to live on the 25th of Baisakh — Tagore’s birthday — which normally falls on the 8th of May. This year, it’s the poet’s one hundred fifty-first birth anniversary. This year, just like any other year, much fanfare is happening in West Bengal and Bangladesh, various Bengali neighborhoods of India, as well as cities across the world wherever there is a community of Bengali people — big or small.

There will be Tagore’s songs. There will be Tagore’s plays. There will be Tagore’s poetry. There will be Tagore’s dances. There will be talks about the poet-philosopher’s poetry and philosophy. More resourceful Bengali communities in places such as Calcutta (Kolkata) and Dhaka and London and Toronto will put out special literary publications to observe the special day. Some will try experimental music — using Tagore’s songs. Some will stage Tagore’s famous plays — Post Office, Land of Cards or Red Oleanders from a new, refreshing point of view. Some will perhaps have an exhibition of Tagore’s paintings.

I know here in New York, a group of Bengali musicians and artists is putting together an audio book of Tagore’s short stories — the Man from Kabul, Return of the Little Boy, the Postmaster — with help from young-generation, college-age Bengali-American boys and girls. Kudos to them.

I have no doubt there’s going to be countless other events, programs and performances all over the world to celebrate this occasion. Especially, Tagore’s 150th birthday was particularly celebratory; it is likely this year many places are perhaps completing their year-long observance with special wrap-up celebrations.

Tagore Dance Drama in U.K.

I could not be a part of any of the numerous gatherings — either in America or Bengal. I am not a part of any of the numerous Bengali clubs, societies and organizations — either in America or Bengal. I do not live in India anymore. I live in a Brooklyn neighborhood where there is a small smattering of immigrants from West Bengal; I know once they had an association that held Durga Puja and therefore, perhaps, Tagore Jubilee as well. But I know the group slowly dwindled, some old inhabitants left this unsung corner of New York City and some others went back to India. In any case, we never hear from them.

There is a large Bangladeshi community within walking distance of where we live in Brooklyn. In fact, working as an immigrant rights activist especially among the South Asians, once I had made an estimate that only this community counted about 30,000 people. It is a large community that has associations from many known and unknown districts of Bangladesh; they frequently host their picnics, street fairs and Eid dinners. But I am not sure if they ever hosted any Tagore birthday celebration. I learned from various friends that most of them came from conservative-Muslim areas in Bangladesh where “Hindu-liberal” Rabindranath Tagore was not such a household name. That is not to say all conservative Muslims are anti-Tagore or anti-Hindu.

In some other West Bengali and Bangladeshi communities in New York and New Jersey, there will be programs and performances. But these days, after working with and for especially the Bangladeshi community, it has dawned to me that inviting someone like me who is not from political Bangladesh is not a priority. After living in New York City for so many years, my family and I have accepted the fact that in spite of our desire to belong with a larger, undivided Bengali diaspora, we are not, in any real sense, part of either a “mainstream immigrant” Bangladesh or West Bengal. (Apologies for using an oxymoron.)

Chances are, we will not know if there were Tagore celebrations in New York or New Jersey where my long, post-9/11 activist experience once had an estimate of some two hundred thousand Bengalis — over eighty percent of whom were from Bangladesh. Practically all the weekend Bengali-language parochial schools and practically all of the two dozens of weekly Bengali-language newspapers and magazines operating and publishing out of New York are Bangladeshi.

The Land of Bengal: a Glorious History of a Thousand Years.

For a long time, my family and I were actively involved with one of the weekend schools where I taught advanced-level Bengali to just-graduated students, and my family members participated in their cultural programs. For a number of years, especially after 9/11, as an important part of my immigrant rights activism, I wrote columns in a number of Bengali weekly newspapers and magazines — Thikana, Ekhon Samoy, Bangalee, Sangbad, Porshee.

With the schools and publications alike, I always did what I always do: educate the community about the difference between culture and kitsch, and speak and write about human rights and justice. When I worked professionally for two immigrant advocacy organizations — one in Jackson Heights, New York City and the other in New Jersey, I also worked with Bangladeshi immigrant families who bore the brunt of a terribly unjust and primitive immigration system here in the U.S. Among other activities, I worked with a few men and women who were in prison for a long time for minor immigration violations; I also worked with some others who were spared from prison detention or deportation because of our work.

I have many friends and acquaintances. I built precious connections with journalists, activists, writers, singers, playwrights and music teachers. I always felt proud to have thought I was a member of the larger immigrant Bengal and immigrant South Asia.

Tagore Festival Toronto

Yet, there is a strange disjunct — an insurmountable wall — between me and my family and the societies both in the Bangladeshi and West Bengali community. West Bengali immigrants do not know us well: we live in a not-affluent area in Brooklyn mostly inhabited by African-Americans, Jewish people, Bangladeshis and Pakistanis. Bangladeshi immigrants do not think we are one of them because we came from India — a country they do not know anymore. The conservative-Muslim Bangladeshis (the variety I mentioned above) do not like or understand a liberal-progressive, one-nation Bengal that Tagore and his predecessors from Bengal Renaissance envisioned. The young-generation, liberal-educated Bangladeshis do not know the common history and heritage of two Bengals shared over one thousand years before the British cut the land of Bengal in halves, erecting insurmountable, blood-soaked borders.

Yet, a very large section of Bangladeshi Bengalis (it’s a very strange term, in my opinion) — most are Muslims — are moderate in their religious and social views, avid music, theater and literature lovers, and are the biggest consumers of music and movies from Calcutta and West Bengal — even today. Strangely, however, some of them have a general apathy, indifference, ignorance and often anathema about political West Bengal and India. When they find out I am from India and not from Dhaka, Sylhet or Chittagong, they talk to me differently. Again, I’m not generalizing. How can I, when I have so many special friends from Dhaka, Sylhet or Chittagong?

New York’s Bengali paper Thikana published a nice review of my Tagore album. I keep working with them.

There are quite a few other Bengali immigrants both from Bangladesh and West Bengal — highly educated, scholarly and erudite — who are satisfied with the small society they have and therefore do not feel any particular urge to invite outsiders like us. New Jersey or Long Island — where most of these more affluent, educated West Bengalis live — is like a group of islands only connected by long-distance, car-driven highways, creating more distances between people. We do not have the time or desire to go out of New York City to see either a Durga Puja or a Tagore performance, and return more depressed that we never felt truly welcome.

All of the above — the entire, personal, true story I told here — is a slow but sure recipé for death. If I was not a high-energy, activist, never-say-die-type personality who would go out of his way to find new friends, colleagues and communities and stay involved with newer and ever-challenging, creative activities — immigrant movement or labor education or Brooklyn For Peace or Durga Puja or Bengali New Year celebration (or even the Tagore-150 we organized in Manhattan last year with help from New Yorker) — death would have come much faster. In my twenty-five-plus years of living in the U.S., I have seen a number of people — a few of them being highly talented but decidedly loners — falling victims of this extreme alienation followed by depression, dark diseases and death. I always, always carry that fear deep inside that one day, I’m going to be a victim of a similar alienation and die untimely.

My new Tagore album: maybe you’ll like the songs — I hope you do

Every year, therefore, at this time when the rest of the world is celebrating the life and work of this incredible genius named Rabindranath Tagore, the question comes to my mind: am I going to live one more year to see the next Tagore birthday celebration? Which song would be the last Tagore song I hear before I die? Which Tagore poem would be the last one I read? Which short story would I translate the last before I perish — and perish prematurely?

I hope I didn’t make you too sad or perturbed and I certainly hope I didn’t make it sound too corny, as if I was trying to draw your sympathy — sympathy for a forlorn soul.

If you feel that way, I am sorry. I do not have anything to offer you to compensate for it — other than the two dozens of Tagore songs I recorded. I also have a few translations of these songs as well as translations of a few Tagore short stories.

I also have a YouTube of one of my talks on culture and Tagore — a talk I gave recently at an Indian university. And if I may say it, I have recently managed to compile a whole host of my essays on Tagore in relation to cultural erosion and globalized kitsch. I’m actually in the middle of writing a book on the above.

I hope you receive these gifts I leave for you, and forgive me for my personal, not-so-cheerful rambling.

Celebrate Tagore. He showed us an educated, modern, progressive way to live. He was not a perfect man. In fact, he had many flaws. I do not consider him a God. I consider him a very important, humanist philosopher-poet teacher who taught us human spirituality, universality and peace.

Tagore taught us the message of emancipation: in Bengali, the word is Mukti. It means inner freedom: liberation of the soul. Nandini showed us the way in Red Oleanders.

If this is the last Tagore birthday before my death, I want to remember him that way.

I hope you get to know him.

Sincerely Writing,

Partha Banerjee

Brooklyn, New York

Land of Cards

My Very Special Birthday Wish

A Reason to Celebrate: My New Tagore Album. Please visit, listen and download (click on the picture).

Today I’m writing to celebrate my birthday. But today is not my birthday. It’s tomorrow.

I’m writing today because tomorrow I won’t have any free time. Birthdays here in the U.S. do not wait for a free day (or a day when you can make yourself free), and just like some other days I love to celebrate — such as Durga Puja or Tagore Jubilee — they often fall on a busy day in the middle of the week, and I cannot celebrate them the way I want to.

That’s not what I call a free country. (But that’s a different story.)

I also want to celebrate those days I love to celebrate with a lot of people and family and friends, and that don’t ever happen either.

(But that’s a different story too.)

I really love to celebrate my birthday. I’ve always loved to do it. I’ve done it in our small, limited-means way both in Calcutta, Kolkata — where I spent the first half of my life when Ma cooked some of the best Indian-Bengali dishes you could ever get anywhere in the world (ask any of my old friends); and then here in the U.S. — where I spent the second half and where my wife cooked some of the best Indian and Bengali dishes you can ever get anywhere in the world. Believe me: I’m not making it up.

So, great food is not a priority no more on my wish list. I’ve been blessed with great food — homemade and heartfelt — all my life. I seek something else. My mind asks for something more. It’s a spiritual yearning.

Perhaps, my very special birthday wish this year is: would you be mine? (Now, I know that’s cheesy

This is a very special note at this very special time. I want to smile. I want to chime.

Would you remember today to smile and chime? Mr. Bright? Ms. Bright? (That’s also perhaps again not so cheesy, right?

I need to see a lot of smile. I need to hear a lot of laughs. I want to hear a lot of songs. Happiness has been in seriously short supply. Seriously. Recently, it’s reached a critically low level.

Yeah, that’s it!

My family and friends — especially those who I know deeply care for me — often tell me these days that I have changed slowly but surely from a sprity, forthrighty, frothy, fizzy, frolicky, fun person always with a big smile and grin and loud laugh and sense of humor to a rather sad, glum and grumpy old man. Now, that’s major bad news. I want to change it.

This is a major tipping point.

So, on this very special day (like, starting from tomorrow), I want to remember the good things that happened to my life and be happy thinking about how lucky I am that those good things indeed, actually happened to me — things that do not happen to most people I know (and I know a heck of a lot of people — like, thousands, literally). I’ve sort of decided to come to a resolution that I shall, in my mind, focus on those positives and ignore, delete and de-focus the negatives.

Now, I know it’s easier said than done.

I also know it sounds like one of those Deepak Chopra books — comics that people actually buy and read and make-believe they are happy now. But Deepak Chopra or not, I know I ain’t got no more choice. Or, it’s gonna be fast and painful death for me. I don’t want to die fast and painful. More importantly, I don’t want to die and be remembered a sad and glum and grumpy man. Oh, no no no, man! Because, I am not a sad and glum and grumpy man. I never was. I never will be.

I’ve actually thought about it long and hard: what is it that pulls me down and makes me sad and angry?

I could perhaps post a long laundry list of those things in layman’s terms — events, experiences and feelings all of which happen to be true and raw and depressing and dirty — that could pull any human being with a heart and brain down. Like, deaths of loved ones — and way too many of them too untimely. Like, leaving India practically for good — out of compulsion. Like, being born too poor and seeing too much poverty and starvation too up close. Like, going through a hell of a lot of physical and mental injury and insult. Like, extreme verbal and physical abuse…like, sexual abuse. Like, hiding them all…way too many of them…and pretending they didn’t happen.

Then, there is more. Like, being forced to go through a social, educational, economic and political system that absolutely, totally, unquestionably cheated you. Like, not being able to use your delightful, lovable, warm personality and sprite, blotting-paper-like desire to learn and respect for your teachers, God-given talents, knowledge, experience, analysis and proven leadership to put to use to change the society and system in a significant way…and at the same time helplessly witnessing one of the darkest and dumbest and most exploitative and violent chapters in human history unfolding in your own life…one event at a time…like a bad, obnoxious movie…acted, directed, produced and promoted by some of the most corrupt and inefficient-yet-arrogant crooks in human history. Compared to them, yes, Caligula or Nero or Kissinger or Cheney is like child’s play.

I’ve come to a major resolution. I can never be president of the United States. Heck, I know I can never even be the chief minister of West Bengal. Only people with tons of money, a Bush-like one-of-a-kind predecessor, a major-media-sponsored genocide or a despondent-hopeless-pathetic regime and equally hopeless electorate could make you a president of the U.S. or a chief minister of West Bengal. I’ve therefore given up on those secretest desires.

That’s sarcasm, as you can see.

My parents-in-law became destitute refugees, overnight. Thanks, Gandhi.

But truly and cross-my-heartly, I’ve resigned to believe a few other not-so-idiosyncratic thoughts. Like, the two Golden Bengals will never be reunited and Bengalis will forever be blasted and looked-down-upon by the West and East alike as a failed race (and nobody will read the history book and know either the Pala Dynasty, Sri Chaitanya’s Bhakti movement, Raja Ram Mohan Ray, Derozio, Vidyasagar, Lalan, Swami Vivekananda, Sister Nivedita, Tagore…and of course, on the flip side of history, the British barbarism). Nobody would ever know how prosperous Bengal was where after the Battle of Plassey, Lord Clive and his women looted so much gold and jewelry that they went absolutely wild berserk. (Read about Clive’s atrocities here.)

I’ve resigned to believe that at the London Olympics of summer, 2012, there will be no demand from the millions of Indian, Pakistani and Bangladeshi immigrants-turned-British citizens for an official apology and reparation for the British Raj’s two centuries of occupation, brutality, mass-killing and mass-looting. I’ve resigned to believe that in India, the same illiterate and feudal-chauvinists who were responsible for a bloody partition, riots, refugees and famines will keep in power for many years to come. I have resigned to believe that very few people even in the so-called enlightened West would ever care to know exactly how many hundreds of thousands of Bengali women were raped and killed by the Kissinger-backed Pakistani army in the 1971 Bangladesh Liberation War.

I have resigned to believe that people who I thought would care would not care. I have a number of examples of that disillusionment. Obama has been the latest example on that list.

My Alma-Mater Speaks Loudly.

I have resigned to believe that Tagore’s Nobel Prize, stolen from his own Vishva Bharati University’s national museum, would never be found. I know the British monarchy would never return Koh-I-Noor and numerous other treasures they looted from India. I now know the British government would never tell us how Subhas Bose — whom Gandhi sabotaged — perished in exile. (Am I digressing too much?)

Okay then. I’ve come to realize that nobody in the elite academia in the “free-thinking” West — especially those in the seat of power — would ever care to learn or promote philosophers and intellectuals outside of what Harvard, Columbia or University of Chicago asks of them to freely think. They would not want to know Tagore. They would not know Bengal Renaissance. They would refuse to know or teach anything majorly un-Euro-American.

I know for the fact that none of the above would ever read my blog.

So, as you can see, I have my reasons to slowly but surely transform from sprity, fun, frolicky to sad and glum and grumpy. But at this rather critical juncture of my life, I refuse to be a victim of their doing and die and be remembered a sad, glum and grumpy, bitter man. I shall not give in to their grand plan: destroy the thinking mind, dumb-down the non-thinking others, keep the trouble makers on the edge, and kill all the smiles.

No, I won’t die their prescribed death.

I want to celebrate this birthday. I want to celebrate it with a smile. I shall live on the many positives that happened to me.

I hope you do too.

Smile with me.

Let’s celebrate life. Let’s celebrate it together.

That is my very special birthday wish today…and tomorrow.

Sincerely Writing,

Partha

Brooklyn, New York

Another Reason to Celebrate: Teaching American Labor Rights!

Tracking Tagore in a 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.

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.

The tiny balcony where she once stood to receive me.

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!

The Way Women Touch Me…It’s Flowertalk

We had foretalk already. It’s now Flowertalk.

…just think about it!

 

[and listen to my recording of the Tagore song I posted below, in case you have any plans to translate his tunes...i tried and failed.]

 

Could it be that I needed to construct the whole structure by deconstructing my prose into poetry? I guess I could do it — with some major effort. Question is, who’d read it? Especially when my poetry is so pathetically erroneous and unsophisticated…just like me?

Instead, we might do this, with your permission (I’m learning manners here). I’ll write a few lines in prose, and then interject with a few lines of poetry. How about it? It’s almost as if I’m describing my experiences with my women…and their touches…as if they came sporadically into my prosaic life…like a few brief, precious, fragrant floral poetic phrases…and the unreal poetry made my stoic mundane unmentionworthy existence worth keeping. It’s a metaphor.

Pretty poetic, right? Well, for me, it is. But isn’t it true that many people have said the same thing about their women — more or less exactly the same way I just did? So, who’s going to bother to read about my poetic flashes? Where are my flowers different from their flowers?

Now, I’m already digressing even before beginning. Friends have already warned me about my longwinded English, unnecessary digressions, and use of complex sentences (I just did one, fyi). They have told me that no way I could woo even a single woman with such morose verbose overdose of unexciting prose.

One of them even called my writing about women “wimpy.”

(I was heartbroken).

They said just because it’s red with emotion doesn’t make it all that rose. (Did you get that poetry yet?…like…prose and rose?)

Would you believe? Even after they said it — and these are friends that would only come along once in a light year — I still fell into that stupid trap, made complex sentences to a point that everybody (myself included) found it…well…too complex…and channel-switching?

Therefore, without any further ado, I shall describe my flowers…I mean…women.

So, ahem. If I could describe my experiences with women in one single [and simple] sentence, it’s this. They’ve all been like flowers that would appear out of nowhere, form buds, create a lot of excitement and possibilities, and then…

…then you have to wait until they decide when to open up. You’re totally at their mercy. You surrender to their wish. If you touch the bud, it might just drop off, or turn pale, and wither. If you force it to open, it will definitely die. You must let it open up to you at its own pace…its own whims…and wait for it.

And then, it might as well do it. And if it does…and when it does…you shall feel yourself lucky that you lived that moment. Thousand stars lighten up the sky in an instant; thousand suns explode.

At that moment, even the most unpoetic you would find yourself writing a few lines of beautiful verse.

But one secret…chances are…it might decide to open at a time when you’re not looking…when you’re indifferent, unmindful…maybe, you’ve practically given up on it…or when you’re sad and depressed that it aroused your senses so much and then turned you down…even when you were so eagerly and patiently waiting for that magic moment to happen…

You never complain. If it happens that way, let it happen that way. Because the end result is so glorious, fantastic, celestial.

You can now touch your flower. You can now take it in your hand, You can now smell it. She has yielded to you.

You can now kiss her.

______

Here’s some poetry I promised. But this is real poetry by a world-famous poet. After all that, I decided not to take a chance. Here is Tagore, for you. Bengali, and then English.

The poet already said it what I always wanted to say…to those special women…I mean, to those special flowers.

Here’s to you…flower.

Tumi ektu kebol boste dio kachhe

Amay shudhu khanek tarey

Aji haate amar ja kichhu kaaj achhe

Ami saango korbo porey

 

let me sit, please

would you, by your side

only for a little

and I shall will wait

to finish my chores

mundane, brittle

 

Na chahile tomar mukhapaane

Hriday amar biraam nahi jaane

Kaajer majhe ghurey beRai jato

Phiri kulhara sagorey

 

true, if I miss

but lookin’ in your eyes

my heart won’t pause

 

in midst o’ my chores

will wander around

by oceans abound

bereft of cause

 

Basanto aj ucchhaashe nisshashe

Elo amar batayane

Alos bhramor gunjariye othey

Phere kunjero prangane

 

spring’s arrived

at my flung-open bay

with fanfare, breeze

honeybees buzz

’bout ‘n around

lush garden and trees

 

Ajke shudhu ekantey aseen

Chokhe chokhe cheye thakar din

Ajke jiban-samarpaner gaan gabo

Nirab abasorey

 

’tis time for us two

only me and you

I look in your eyes

you look in mine too

 

and ’tis time to sing a song

the submission song

from a heart to a heart

all quiet and long

________

Sincerely Writing,

Partha

Brooklyn, New York

The Poet of All Poets

Our Children’s 9/11

Children's Tribute to 9/11 (Trinity Church, St. Paul's Chapel, NYC)

We went from school to school, and community to community here in New York and New Jersey, and we collected real-life stories written by our children. These are their 9/11 stories. These are their 9/11 world.

To these children, to you, I owe thousand apologies that in spite of many tries, my co-workers and I could not find a publisher willing to publish your stories. But I did not forget you, and I did not forget the way you opened your hearts and minds to us.

I’m now posting some of these stories here. Hope the world will notice this time.

 

Sincerely Writing,

Partha

Brooklyn, New York

Advocacy work at: (1) New Immigrant Community Empowerment (NICE); (2) New Jersey Immigration Policy Network.

________

I am 15 years old.  My name is Sheika Jones and my favorite color is blue.  I love to sing and listen to music.  I write poems on my spare time. I have a best friend name Fantasia and she means the world to me.  I want to be a singer or a nurse wehn I get older, or a teacher so I can teach kids about different cultures.  I am a  business person.  I like to wear a lot of jewelry. I am jamacian, puerto Rican, Indian, and Black. I am a spick but I also deserve to get treated with respect.

To be an immigrant is like you escaping from another country and to another or to just not be from your own country.  It hasn’t changes since 9/11 because people still treat others the same way.  I think it should have changed America, should have came together instead of separate.  Certain people do act different towards me now, but I don’t pay them no mind.

Sheika Jones

________

I WILL BE MISSING YOU

You were so full of life, always smiling and carefree.

Life loved you being a part of it,

And I loved you being a part of me.

You could make anyone laugh,

If they were having a bad day.

No matter how sad I was you could take the hurt away.

Nothing could ever stop you,

Or even make you fall.

You were ready to take on the world, ready to do it all.

But God decided he needed you,

So from this world you left.

But you took a piece of all of us; our hearts are what you kept.

Your seat is now empty, and it’s hard not to see your face.

But please always know this.  No one will ever take your place.

ou left without a warning,

Not even saying good0bye.

And I can’t seem to stop,

Asking the question why.

Nothing will ever be the same,

The halls are empty without your laughter.

But I know you’re up in heaven,

Watching over us and looking after.

i didn’t see this coming,

It hit me by surprise.

And when you left this world,

A small part of us died.

Your smile could brighten anyone’s day,

No matter what they were going through.
And i know everyday for the rest of my life,

I will be missing you.

Stephanie Figueroa

________

Twin Towers
With the one-year anniversary of Sept. 11, I find I have a lot to look back on. I remember the night my friends and I decided not to   dress up for the New Comers High School Senior Prom.  Instead, my friends and I decided to crash the formal party held at the World Trade Center in street clothes, causing all kinds of trouble.  Unfortunately, no kids after the year 2000 would be allowed to have a prom there.
I remember Sharif, nicknamed Bunty, one of the older players on my high school football team, was looking up to by everyone in my lowly sophomore and junior years.  I was shocked by the news that he too died in the attacks.  Walking two kids to the Sept. 11 memorial that we have on our school grounds, I forze when I saw his picture, surrounded by roses and other mementos. Instead of shedding tears, all I could do was remember the funny moments that secretly endeared him to me.

That is what Sept. 11 has meant to me and a lot of my friends back home.  It should serve as a reminder of the good times we have with the people we care about, just as much as it serves as a time of mourning.  Sept. 11 is more than merely wearing a glum face and crying for those people who passed away.  And damn us all if it ever turns into another commercial holiday. Sept. 11 is about love.

Love is the driving force that seems to push everyone in these times and it is what should push us as we remember those whose lives were lost in the attacks.  We have love for our fellow man so we fight to rescue him or her from a burning, collapsing building.  The love we have for the people who died drives us to memorialize them on the anniversary of one of our most tragic days.  The people who knew them and loved them most, did so regardless of their faults and always will.

Some of the people who were killed that day were loving, laughing, jolly people who would hate to see their loved ones in sadness or despair. So as you remember, please try not to upset yourself too much.  The grief should be understood by everyone.
I recall coming home to New York after Christmas break.  My cousin and I would look at the thin lines that ran down the Wold Trade Center and ponder about the hundreds of thousands of people in them, hustling and bustling, doing what all New Yorkers do.
The Twin Towers were so tall, but never in an ominous way.  To me, they seemed to be a beacon, a huge road sign saying, “Welcome to New York City.  This is your home and it always will be.”

I almost walked right past the site because I was so used to having the Twin Towers mark where I was located.  I saw a small crowd of people staring at something, and then I turned to the left, I saw a vast empty wasteland I knew was the end of the New York legacy the World Trade Center helped to represent.

Maybe out west, people are used to seeing vast stretches of useless land, but to a city dweller like me, it scared me, like when your father has a heart attack right in front of you and you don’t know CPR.  Everyone around country says what happened in New York was horrible because people were killed.  This is true and I would never suggest otherwise, but there is more than just that tragedy.

My entire world was taken away from me. I rode the outside of the F train, another train leading into Manhattan, only to find I was disoriented by the loss of the greatest landmark I have ever known.  The landscape looked different. I might as well been in Seattle or some other city.  Those two building were like party of my family, like those two cousins who are brothers that spend the holidays with you.  But their undoing ws not going to break my heart.  When the towers fell, my world was altered forever.  I found hope in the strength of the people who were on the scene, helping each other to survive during and long after the 11^th.
So now, as we try to move forward, what is it exactly we ware going to remember?  If you ask me, I am going to have to say I will remember raiding my prom. I ma going to remember my mother, who I love more than anything, taking time off from her job to take me to the top of the World Trade Center when I was six years old. I am going to remember the first bombing, when all of the television stations were out and all we could do was watch CBS’s airing of “The Wizard of Oz,” I am going to remember Fat.

In short, I am going to remember the good times, because they are the only things that can pull us past tragedies. On Sept. 11, I plan to laugh as much as I plan to cry.

Oscar

________

3 years ago, I thought my dream was brighter than everyone else’s dream.  I thought, I could accomplish my dream so easily.  But unfortunately these days I have been living with fears.  I earnestly believe that my fear has started when the terrorist broke the World Trade Center.  That day was like some other ordinary days.  I woke up in the morning; I think it was about 8:00.  So I took the breakfast in the morning with my parents and then they left from home at 8:30.  Then I decided to turn on the television because I didn’t know what to do.  But unfortunately, in that couple of planes had attacked in the World trade Center.  At the first time I thought it was kind of movie, actually I couldn’t believe it.  After watching 30 minutes about the same topic, I finally understood that it happened..  This was one of the most horrible tragedies, I have ever seen.

About 5000 people had died in the attack.  It happened around 8:45.  This attack was absolutely unnoticeable.  I had tears in my eyes because my uncle died during the attack.  I couldn’t believe that my uncle died because I had conversation with my uncle the day before of attack.  My aunt had been crying since my uncle died.  My uncle had two children, one of them is 16 year old, and the other one is 19 years old.  Now they are getting mentally sick.  They always talk about hteir father.  They haven’t forgotten their father.  I hope they will overcome the horrible memory very soon.

I wanted to be doctor. I have lost my self-confidence because 9/11 because now I think there is not enough opportunity for Muslim people.  Well I am a Muslim.  And my first name is Mohammed.  And I have heard, some people think all the Mohamed is terrorist. But is that my mistake, my name is Mohammed. I think this kind of stereotype, I meant those people who think Mohammed is bad, and they shouldn’t judge one person with others.  But fortunately, I feel much better right now because my father have told me you shouldn’t think about it all the time.  I should move on and keep focus on your dream or aim.

Jony

________

On 9.11.01, I was in my native country.  Though I was not i the USA at that time I still can see that most horrible moment and day in front of my eyes, because I was watching the WTC falling through the media.  I was feeling like thousands of people are dying in front of me and I couldn’t do anything to save them.

However, it’s a real heart touching event to know and to see, but also its true that situation made many living Muslim people to suffer a lot.   Nowadays many people all over the world think Islam means terrorism, which is absolutely wrong.

Right now I’m living in the USA with my whole family.  But in the Sep. 11 only my two brothers were here.  I heard from them that luckily they didn’t have to face any kind of big problem during that time, but many of our relatives faced different kinds of problems like as, immigration, religious discrimination, and people’s hate.  People in the USA know that general Muslim people cannot be blamed for that terrorist attack, but still we are suffering.
Nusrat Jarin

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