Nirole Report – September 27th 2010

18/25 Dover Lane,

1st October 2010

Dear Boromama, Mejomani, Sejomani, Nomama, Chhotomama, Bachi, Ma and Bulimashi,

I was in Nirole on the night of the 27th September and returned in the morning of the 28th of September 2010. I stayed at Padarenu and was really pampered by Khokon, Shanti, Sanjeev, Archana and Rupali. Baba accompanied me on my trip. The reason for my visit was to pay my homage to Kamakhya and Ishaneswar for my 50th birthday. But I combined this visit with another mission which has occupied my mind for quite a while now. This mission is to convince people to stop the practice of animal sacrifice. You may have noticed that I have not been to Nirole during the Pujos for the past 25 years and the sole reason for this long avoidance is the simple fact that I am unable to face the ritual of animal sacrifice. Therefore, I decided to make an assessment of the overall opinion in the village regarding this practice. What follows is a report of my interaction with the opinion makers on the issue of animal sacrifice.

I barely had a swig of water and rushed off with Khokon as my guide to Attahash. This is the first time that I ever visited the temple. I met the trustees and they informed me that the temple had banned animal sacrifice from their mode of worship ever since the Directive Principle 51 of the Indian Constitution was put in place making animal sacrifice an offence to the Indian law. The temple trustees also informed me that animal sacrifice is banned all over India in public temples held under trusts. The devotees however continue to use the temple facilities as public infrastructure to sacrifice animals. This is how animals continued to be sacrificed in Attahash as well. But the trustees have been able to reduce the numbers and frequency of this killing by campaigning intensely against the superstition. They showed me their campaign materials and asked me whether I could contribute by giving them ideas on the campaign against animal sacrifice and promote vegetarianism as a way of life. I assured them that I would do whatever I can from my present location in Delhi.

I went over to the Panchayat as my next stop. I spoke to the Pradhan, Smt Pratima Chunari. Her husband, Narayan Chunari did most of the talking and on hearing of Ma Kamakhya, put his hands over his head and did a massive pronam in air in deference to the Goddess. He said that he was against animal sacrifice and that he would do everything in the Panchayat’s power to put into effect the Directive Principle 51 that bans animal sacrifice. But the problem was that the sacrifice in Kamakhya bari was a private affair and conducted within the boundary walls of a private property and hence the Panchayat could only intervene if the office bearers received a complaint. He advised me that I should put in a formal complaint, which I decided to refrain from for the time being. Mr Chunari was much enthused over my project and suggested that I should widen my horizon to convince devotees who choose to remain steeped in the darkness of ancient rites and superstitions by issuing pamphlets at regular intervals. I have promised him that I would indeed do this.

The next person I met was Bikash Mondal, the Secretary of the Cultural Society. Mr Mondal organizes jaatras in Nirole and in the neighbouring villages. His grandfather and father have also put up shows for Kamakhyabaari and I immediately recalled the heartrending melodramas of Devi Sultana and Masnad Kaar. Bikashbabu said that animal sacrifice was a private affair of Kamakhyabaari and that the villagers had nothing to do with it. Villagers had no opinion on the practice and really would not care if it continued or was stopped. But on the point that animal sacrifice made a public spectacle out of a heinous act, he agreed, was damaging for one’s sensibilities and especially was very harmful for children. Animal sacrifice in any case should be stopped and since he is an ardent believer in vegetarianism especially in view of the climate change, he felt that we should stop eating meat altogether.

While Bikashbabu and I were talking, Sanjeev informed me that the animal sacrifice was a tax that the family imposed on lessees of Nopukur. He said that he has the papers to this effect. But the others like Shanti, Archana and Bikashbabu differed saying that the practice started after the Big Fire in which Dasudadu’s father was badly injured. I would then place the vintage of the ritual only at 150 years and not ever since Kamakhya’s worship started some 400 years ago. Interestingly, it is believed that Ishaneswar himself set Nirole on fire!! I wonder why He would want to do that!

Bikashbabu took me to the Secretary of the Nirole High School, Mr Saradindu Rano. Saradindubabu turned out to be a scholar of English literature presently doing his doctoral thesis on Mulk Raj Anand. Saradindubabu is vehemently opposed to the ritual of animal sacrifice. He shares my concerns on making violence into a public spectacle and its possible adverse impact on children. If there is just one reason to stop animal sacrifice it is for the mental health of the children. He said that the sacrifice can be turned into a gift giving ceremony like giving new clothes, or books and stationery or even food to the poor children. Kamakhyabari would be far better known through such acts of giving rather than holding on to psychologically damaging practices such as the animal sacrifice.

Saradindubabu gave me some interesting insights on the family of Kamakhyabaari. It seems that this family was famous in the village for maintaining a veritable army of henchmen, those who were “non-Bengalis”. These henchmen were given the Debottor lands to be cultivated. Most probably these were the Baghdi people that the Attahash records mention. Jogindranath Gupta’s book “Banglar Dacaat’ has details on these henchmen. It was only after these henchmen were cracked down upon by the Indian government after Independence, that they dissipated and the land came to be occupied by the present Mondals, or the Morols, from who Morol para, the locality in which Kamakhyabaari is situated gets its name.

In the meanwhile I had been to Ishaneswartala for paying my respects. Some children were playing cricket in the ground in front of the temple. They surrounded Baba and me and started asking for food!! These children went to school and they came from respectable families of weavers of the village. Their begging for food sent a chill down my spine as I sensed that India was steadily heading towards one of the worst food crises since the Bengal Famine of 1943.

On my way back, I met Bansidadu doing his aaroti at the Kamakhya temple. I raised the topic of ending animal sacrifice in the Kamakhya mandir. He looked relieved at the prospect of no longer having to witness a young lively kid being cut into two. He said that he eagerly awaited the family’s decision to end the practice and replace a young goat with a pumpkin.

The following morning I met Atmaram Mukherjee, the head of the Priest’s Association in Nirole. Atmaram explained to me very patiently why animal sacrifice was an integral part of the Durga puja of the Shaktas and since the Kamakhyabaari was a Shaktabaari, animal sacrifice was necessary for the worship to be of any consequence. I was a bit surprised because all along Dida told us that the Guptas of Nirole were Vaishnavs. Why then I used to ask her, do we have such a violent ritual? She did not seem to really know how such an anomaly emerged, but she was certain that we did not have animal sacrifice since time immemorial.

Atmaram tried to convince me that animal sacrifice was not only permitted by the Shastras but was in fact prescribed by the Holy texts to signify the completion of a certain process. If we stop the ritual, then all our efforts at worshipping Kamakhya will be belied. When I asked him why the public temples had no sacrifice, he said that these temples had a different mode of worship and which did not render benefits to private individuals. Since Kamakhya pujo was a private affair, sacrifice constituted an integral part of the pujo meant to deliver private gains. When I asked why a goat and not a pumpkin, as his own family sacrificed a pumpkin, he said that there was no problem if a vegetable was to be substituted for an animal because according to the Shastras, sugarcane could replace a buffalo, pumpkin could come in place of a goat and arecanut could be imagined to be a lamb. But some families were meant to sacrifice vegetables and some were meant to sacrifice animals and Kamakhya baari was an animal sacrificing family.

I was getting a bit confused with Mr Mukherjee’s discourses and it was only when I asked him what the procedure through which such conversions could be done was, I realized what he had been hinting at all along. Animals are sacrificed to appease the bad spirits that threaten to destroy the pujo. The flesh and blood are made available to these ill meaning spirits so that they do not disturb the Brahmins from peacefully pursuing the worship. Brahmins are the pure ones and hence they have no need for flesh, the flesh is meant for the witches. Why is it that witches come to Kamakhyabaari and not to the Mukherjees? Simply because the witches are the members of Kamakhyabaari; the impurity and hence the bestiality of the family members make it important that their baser senses be first satisfied by having the blood and the meat. In the Indian society, such attributes are reserved for the lower castes and Atmaram’s repeated mention that only three families in Nirole practice animal sacrifice, among who are the benes, sadgopes and us, does he bracket the family of Kamakhyabaari as a low caste one? Is it because of our low caste that we must sacrifice animals?

I suddenly could find the larger picture. The animal sacrifice started after the Big Fire and the Big Fire was set by Ishaneswar. While one would think that the Morolpara was saved by Kamakhya and hence the goat sacrifice, this fails to explain why the benes and the sadgopes who were almost annihilated by the Fire also cut live goats during the pujo? To the best of my understanding of Indian sociology, this was a caste war. The Brahmins were the ones who set us on fire because we were running the Sanskrit school and a temple and the largesse that the family parted with to maintain a huge army of henchmen shows that Kamakhyabaari was gaining in economic, intellectual and social power. So the fire was a typical caste war, one that we see so often all across the country even today. The ritual of animal sacrifice was a compromise made by Kamakhyabaari as the defeated party in the caste war because it was an acceptance of the essentially low caste and even untouchable status of the family despite its riches and erudition. Till this date, the Kamakhyabaari continues this self deprecating and self demeaning practice that reinforces its low caste status and makes itself ranked on the same level as the benes and the sadgopes.

It is not surprising that Mr Mukherjee encouraged our pala to stop the practice of goat killing immediately and he insisted that the shoriks need not be consulted for affairs during our pala. I suspect that he has hopes that some shoriks would continue with the animal sacrifice reminding the village of our low caste status while in our pala we graduate to ritually higher castes through pumpkin sacrifice.

In sum, the following points have emerged from the above ;

  1. villagers have no opinion on animal sacrifice but would like it to be stopped.
  2. the intellectuals in the village think that animal sacrifice may be damaging for children’s sensibilities and is a superstition that can be done away with.
  3. Priest’s have no issues with replacing a goat with a pumpkin.
  4. Goat sacrifice is a marker of a low caste status of the family.
  5. Shoriks have really nothing to do with the specific content and scale of offerings and the pala members are free to spend or not to spend in any manner that suits their means and beliefs.

 

I have placed before you the results of my tour in Nirole as transparently as I could. It is clearly evident that a pumpkin could well come in the place of a goat right from this time onwards. Indu, an animal rights champion, will make all the necessary conversions in the pujo podhhoti.

With regards to all,

With love,

Mithua

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Break Ke Baad – Impudent Chauvinism

Sometimes I get appalled at the decisions of the Censor Board of India. They are overly concerned with sex, violence and smoking on screen, often take these scenes out of their context and assume that the frames containing such “contraband contents” can impact the audience. But what the board invariably misses out is the ideology that is smuggled through the gloss and shines of celluloid, mounted on fully resolved cinema stories and portrays the assumed pains and pleasures of the characters have a far greater ability to impair attitudes and damage the progressive ideas of its viewers. Break Ke Baad is one such film. I wonder what the women’s activists are doing about it, and what is even worse is that the principles of girls’ colleges seem to not even whimper.

Break ke Baad is the story of a young girl played by Deepika Padukone and Abhay Gulati, played by Imran Khan. Around them is the mother of the girl, a retired actress and a thrice married aunt of the boy. These two elderly women move the control switches of the story to have the girl and boy marry each other at the end because they love each other. Through the beginning, middle and end, the aim of the film is to perpetuate the idea that a girl pursuing her career and passions is willful and selfish because that requires her to travel to Universities abroad and focus on her work in a manner that she has stay away from home. Any young man or woman pursuing professional and academic excellence knows the worth of staying away from home among her course peers and how much the right “atmosphere” is needed for her to get her act together. Instead of promoting life in the hostel, the vratachari lifestyle of celibacy that is so needed for any tapasya, the girl is literally being burdened to carry a childhood love into a mature romance that progressively gets embedded into a demand for marriage. Her mother, an actress is so disrespectful of histrionics because her profession had pained her. What the pain is, she does not specify, but her mention of her husband leaving her hints that her state of being a cheated woman had to do something with her career as an actress, or her single minded devotion to her career. Truly, the girl calls her mother by her first name, telling us that were mothers to pursue professions, children are deeply distressed and even damaged emotionally. The director presents an ideal stay at home scene, in which the talented older woman, the mother is passionately into pottery and the independent minded, free willed girl is seen helping the former out, a typical Indian idea of a serene life is injected into us as a drug, mother and daughter staying at home and pottery, a Page 3 hobby, is used to keep women firmly grounded into the courtyard, the only open space that is allowed for women to inhabit.

The girl wears short clothes, smokes a cigar, drinks, and gets drunk; these are just fine because these are indulged in the presence of the boyfriend or of the mother. But when she moves out of the ambit of the “gaze” of her man and mother, the latter resent her as being self-willed, selfish and undisciplined. Hence the grand metaphor of the flying kite for the girl, who flies away into heights and distances only to have the tether firmly held by her boyfriend. The moment she tries to immerse herself into her studies and career and seeks peace, silence and solitude those which are needed so crucially when one has to pull off a degree, she is accused of being casting away her commitments abruptly. Let us never imagine that she will be ever allowed to grow out of her childhood love and find her true self through a romance that her adult self indulges in. Observed a little more patiently, we see the motif of a child marriage, a bethrowal as in guana awaiting the wedding, as in bidaai. Hence focus and undivided attention to studies and a future career is constantly poked and punctured by the phone calls from mother and the overenthusiastic boyfriend’s turning up at the girl’s place. The girl is made to appear lonely on her graduation day when the boyfriend is too busy to be with her and mother appears only on the last day. Loneliness is the price that she must pay for locking herself up in her studies. Romantic love that must culminate into marriage is ultimate happiness for a woman and any pursuit of her individuality, as in a career, must be a part time affair.

The boy is portrayed as a metrosexual, looking after his girl as a parent would do for a child, or like a baby sitter. Though they are both of the same age, the ideal man is portrayed as a little adult, matured, and patient. He is content to remain a step behind his lady love; but must be omnipresent in her life, refusing to believe that either can transform as human beings, become different and then indifferent to each other. Childhood friendships must mature into adult romances erasing any possibility of metamorphosis and transformations that happen with age and experience, in which the woman can take any decision on her own only after being approved by her mother and seconded by the boyfriend. The new age man is thus a person who keeps a watchful eye on his girl from a distance, steps in at moments of danger which the new age girl, despite her independence is not supposed to be able to handle and resolve.

The film disallows women to grow up beyond their girlhood, make them protégés and wards of the men who love them, chain them with senses of commitment and images of caring selves when they wish to pursue their careers with the same seriousness as men and finally lock them indoors as helping hands of their mothers or as blissful beings in matrimony and childbirth. There has never been such an overt and shameless attempt at subverting a woman’s right to exist as a free citizen and an equal participant in public life as this film, Break Ke Baad.

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Bollywood-isation of the Hindi Formula Film – Changing Cinema For Changing Times

Today the Hindi commercial cinema is known as Bollywood rhymed with Hollywood, a name by which the American film industry is known. Hollywood is a neighbourhood in Los Angeles, in the state of California in the USA, which has a concentration of film studios and residences of directors, film stars, producers and writers. Bollywood, therefore is derived from Bombay, also to indicate a plethora of such film personalities who live in the city now called Mumbai. Similarly Kollywood means Kerala cinema, Tollywood means the essentially Bengali cinema produced out of studios of Kolkata that are mainly located in Tollygunje and Lollywood means Lahore cinema and so on. But the term Bollywood used for the Hindi commercial cinema has a few interesting connotations which takes into account some sweeping changes that have taken place in the Hindi commercial cinema ever since 1995, the release of Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge, a period that also corresponded to the opening up of the Indian economy to global markets which, in turn brought about a radical change in the nature of the Indian state and its policies towards its citizens. The predominant popular culture, namely the Hindi commercial cinema too changed and Bollywood became a new way of making, circulating and consuming the entertainment cinema produced out of Mumbai.

The main points of difference between the Hindi cinema and Bollywood is that while the former was consumed by a substantial portion of the underclass along with the middle class, Bollywood today is mainly consumed by the middle classes. Hindi cinema was famous for its appeal to the masses, the chavanni chhap, a term that indicated viewers who stamped the cheapest tickets at 25 paisa to sit in the front row; today’s Bollywood typically release in plush multiplexes serving expensive food stuff where the main profits come from selling popcorn than from the sale of tickets. The multiplex is an entire lifestyle with its food stalls, advertisement kiosks, American corn counters and uniformed staff, a veritable hospitality centre into which film watching is located. The film is ensconced in such an environment of being an out of reality experience. Bollywood films are sleeker with sensibilities to suit a social class that has not had to struggle for survival as the earlier social class of intended film viewers of the Hindi cinema were supposed to be. Bollywood’s intended viewers are persons who are already there but now has to belong to the class of the super powerful and the super rich. Bollywood’s intended viewers are those of the creamiest of the creamy layers of the society who have had an upward mobility from the upper middle class into that class of the corporate crorepatis where professional acumen wins enough money to translate into political power. While there was a time when film stars would join politics to encash on one’s popularity as a film star, today’s politicians seek Bollywood stars to strengthen legitimacy among the masses.

Further, Bollywood cinema concentrates now on designer homes, super expensive coffee shops, exotic tourist destinations, all in a way to promote a life style. Gone are the days when exotic locations were natural sceneries from various countries and lifestyles portrayed were often contrasts between the one that the protagonist had and the other that the villain possessed; usually modest for the former, and ostentatious for the latter. Wealth was looked down upon as something immoral and bad, probably because of the socialistic ethics that guided Indian politics ever since Independence to economic liberalization. But after economic liberalization, the abashment about opulence waned off and what came in its place was the pursuit of wealth as an indication of macho power. Leadership, nationalism, masculinity, power and wealth all rolled into the ideals of the middle class to pursue in the neo liberal politics in which corporate houses and state power confound while the media, also controlled by the corporate houses tries to produce a non critical consensus. Bollywood also reflects this ideology of consensus distracting audiences into issues around romance, friendship and fidelity. Since the time when Bollywood was born with the release of Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge in 1995, the genre itself has changed from the family where ageing parents were the unquestioned bosses into films of “different flavor” where individuals, often shown as rootless and alienated persons were the protagonists and thus dissociating the individual from the family and opening her to a further control by media generated ideals.

Apropos to the above, the media, namely the newspaper and the television has “lifestyle” exposures, with fashion, cookery, eating out, home furnishings with large supplements of film personalities thrown in. Celebrities also express their minds in forty character “tweets” in social networking sites, and those appear as marquee in the television news channels during Breaking News ! This is in sharp contrast to the earlier stars of the Hindi cinema where they led such sequestered lives that one had to spend days and even years trying to “catch” an interview with them. The value of Hindi film stars was in their invisibility beyond the frames of the cinema; today’s celebrities must be seen more in the outside world than as actors in cinema screens. The stars are seen at award functions, as hosts of reality television shows, as live endorsers of commercial products and brands and auction their company as dining companions of “ordinary men and women” for money ! They are also known to “sell” their statuses by being esteemed guests at wedding parties albeit at a huge price from the hosts. Sometimes, real estate companies have celebrities as neighbours to raise premiums. Film stars are now cookie points which you can buy if you have the money and move up the social ladder, the new form of Sankritization, a process by which people who had come into riches could buy their way into the upper caste by imitating their customs and rituals.

Bollywood is more technically intense, though it is definitely smaller in scale than the Hindi cinema. One cannot have a Mughal-e- Azam nor a Sholay, Bollywood has the money, the talent, the resources but no longer has the canvas of the mind that the makers of such large films had. There can no longer be the sacrifice of Mother India, nor the tragedy of Deewaar; there can never be a Meena Kumari in Kareena Kapoor, nor can Devdas be as in Shah Rukh as Dilip Kumar has been. Bollywood productions can be sleek and smart, but never with the passion of the Hindi cinema. Hindi cinema stars would read scripts for the emotions in them; Bollywood stars read the script to understand the attitude of the characters. This makes a huge difference in the scale, where Bollywood is about actors, while Hindi cinema was about stars. No wonder then the Bollywood actors are more of celebrities, by dint of familiarity of faces and a lifestyle of opulence, always creating a distance between them and wannabes of good life. The lifestyle of the celebrities are posited as ideals that people must follow, leading us to a path of consumerism and social competition often making us fall into the traps of debts by those very financiers who also lend to cinema.

A reckoning of a few remakes of Bollywood blockbusters will help us understand this problem better. Let us take the films Don (1978) and Don (2006). The former was a film starring Amitabh Bachchan in a double role. As Don, he was a lethal and merciless character; as Vijay he was simple and rustic. Don dies but the police officer wants to put Vijay in Don’s place so that he (Vijay) can play a Trojan Horse in Don’s gang and help the police to bust it. Don is then the figure, dangerous but absent while Vijay the simpleton has to impersonate him. The greatest idea of the film was to have Vijay “catch” Don as he continuously tries to emulate him and learn his manners. The entire film is based on a rhythm, the rhythm of the lead star, Amitabh Bachchan. The rhythm of Don is generated basically by Amitabh’s running away from his enemies and the police. There is a lot of running that Vijay does, from Roma who wants to kill him, the gang to know that he is a police decoy, the police who think that he is the real Don and metaphorically, Vijay too chases Don as an image as he tries to become the same man. This rhythm is replicated in Helen’s cabaret, in Roman’s dance and in the famous songs Main Hon Don and Khaike Paan Benarasiwallah. The film Don helped to explore Amitabh Bachchan’s “body” as a star and this went a long way in establishing him as the superstar that he was. The film also integrated the two aspects of Amitabh – one the cold, rational, calculative and strategic inaccessible man, and the other as a comic, light hearted simple soul into a single character. The music of Don was the binding factor that connected the frames, piece by piece into the totality of the film. The characters of Don supported the central character played by Amitabh Bachchan as Don and drew their distinct personas from being a part of the whole the whirled around the central but now absent character of the dead Don, thought to be alive. Kamal Kapoor as Narang, Pran as Jasjit, Satyen Kapoor as Inspector Verma, and above all Om Shivpuri as the smooth Interpol officer, Shetty as Shakaal, Mc Mohan as Ma, Helen as Kamini, Zeenat as Roma and Iftekar as the DSP, D’Silva are characters that are brilliantly etched in the mind as one recalls the film. But in the new version, these characters have nothing to define them.

The new film Don (2206) is made out of the “feelings” that one gets by watching Don; it is a viewer’s response to the original film. The director Farhan Akhtar is the new age director while its writer is his father and also as Javed Akhtar, one of the Salim-Javed duo who wrote the original Don. The new Don is an exercise in suavity, and serves to show how suave the actor Shah Rukh Khan has been, but unlike in the original Don in which the director establishes a core attribute, namely the body rhythm of the star, Amitabh Bachchan, in the new Don, the director tries to establish Shah Rukh Khan in a certain kind of attitude, smart, suave, elegant and yet ruthless. Since the new Don did nothing to the “body” of Shah Rukh Khan, its music failed to create any impact except appear as a remix. Besides, the music was the main stay of the original film, and its use by a later film without the images thrown up in a similar rhythm made the new Don fall a bit flat. Besides, the crux of Don lay in its music and beat; a beat that was centrifugal absorbing free floating episodes and characters into the centrality of form. The centrality of form emerged from the lead character Don, who commanded and controlled everything and had the power to do so.

In the new production, Don (2006), Don was played by Shah Rukh Khan. The image of Shah Rukh, unlike that of Amitabh Bachchan is not one who orders chaotic masses, not one whose power extends to bring things lying at the margins into the centrality of concern. The crux of Shah Rukh’s power does not lie in ordering or centralizing; his power lies in extending his will to areas beyond his reach. While Amitabh’s movement is from the outer to the inner, or strengthening an inner core to absorb more of the outside world into the inner core of his ideas of perfection, Shah Rukh’s movement is from the inner to the outer, restlessness that wants him to be everywhere and with everyone all the time. This makes Shah Rukh’s image one of panning out, becoming less dense and lighter as it spreads over progressively extended areas. The idea of Shah Rukh as Don is Don being physically present everywhere, while the idea of Amitabh as Don is to have a dense centre with his “men” working under his centralized command. When the Don indeed disguises as the taxi driver to kill the runaway Ramesh, in case of Amitabh, it becomes lethal because the great Don has unseated himself to deliver the fatal blow, but in case of Don as Shah Rukh Khan, it is not a shock because that’s how he generally is.

In Amitabh’s Don, Don had to die and Vijay had to find him. This is in tune with the essence of Amitabh’s image which transforms, breaks, dissolves and finds itself anew. Shah Rukh’s image is one of self-preservation, one who persists, prevails and pursues. Such an image knows no transformation and hence he could not pull off in his version of Don, the essence of Amitabh’s Don, of finding Don afresh through Vijay. Don (1978) was the rediscovery of Don through Vijay, an opportunity for revisitation. In Shah Rukh’s Don, it was to revel in the tricks of the original Don, who in the former version was already defined and set aside as if in a sanctum sanctorum, to be explored and investigated. The music of Don was born out of moments of the original version and hence fell flat in the later one. Farhan Akhtar wants to make yet another version of Don, only possible with the profanized image of Shah Rukh Khan as Don. In the original version with Amitabh Bachchan, Don was sacred, one who could not be repeated and one who no longer remained in the grips of the profane world to be manipulated or even be killed!

It is only obvious that the two versions made at two different points of time should express the ethos of their ages. In the original version, there is an attempt at control and command, a sense of individual agency, a finiteness of space and a connectedness of characters as if the film is a jigsaw puzzle, or a kaleidoscope where a strong and steady pattern forms each time out of the pieces. In the later versions, the character goes out and like Alice in Wonderland meets characters all of whom look warped and jaded as if in a Mad Hatter’s tea party. The difference in form indicates the changes in the politics of then and of now. The post liberalization age of India has been individuating, isolating given to competition and self gratification; it is an age when one has to run very hard just to stay in place. This age spells a huge crisis for the middle class for who the world has become fast moving and uncertain. The age before now was one of nationalism, with a leaning towards socialistic ideals when redistribution was a preferred to growth and when it was possible for the individual to negotiate and bargain with the powers that constrained him. In such a situation, the individual had more power to order the world according to an idea and this lent to cinema, a consistent form, a kind of closure and compactness where events came to their logical conclusion and everything contingent seemed to be able to be controlled and contained in the film as well as believed to be so in life.  Such a polity exuded the power of the institution which in turn gave the individual her power through her position as an incumbent in the institutions. Such a political economy notwithstanding various barriers to social mobility was nonetheless stable and the rules of its games unchanging and certain. The age as this was an age in which it made sense for the individual to dissolve herself and die as a martyr, seek self redemption through retribution and renunciation, because this was an age of preservation when individualism had a value and hence death also have one.

The political economy of liberalization on the other hand is a release of the constraints on the individual. The free reigns to private enterprises and private profits may seem to unbridle individualism yet it appears that everywhere neo-liberalism actually isolates and decentres the individual. This is because the State has given way to the market and the individual who used to define herself vis-à-vis the rather tangible constraints on her now finds herself anchorless. The loss of the tangible forces of the State and its institutions has given the individual a loss of her boundaries and as she seeks these boundaries she extends herself, expanding endlessly, losing her centre, her origins, floating away, sometimes without aim. This is exactly how Shah Rukh Khan appears as Don in a sharp contrast to the well defined, well-bounded and definitive image of Don essayed by Amitabh Bachchan. The difference in the two versions of Don tells us of two conditions of individualism between a nationtalist and socialistic system and a neoliberal polity.

We will now turn to Devdas (1955) and Devdas ( 2002), one in which the lead role is played by Dilip Kumar and the other in which Shah Rukh Khan plays Devdas. The differences between the two versions are glaring. The former is soft hued and soft spoken while the latter is loud and garish. Devdas portrayed by Dilip Kumar is a man who is tragic because he has nothing to mourn for; Devdas portrayed by Shah Rukh Khan seems to make an exhibition of his state and finds an occasion to mourn at everything. The latter’s sorrow rises when he sees Chunnibabu, or his family servant, or Chandramukhi. Shah Rukh’s Devdas is a man who has been bereaved. Dilip Kumar’s Devdas is a character who is moving about in a vacuum. Interestingly, Devdas of Dilip Kumar’s tragedy is drawn from the fact that all constraints have been removed from him because Paro, his beloved is married off to another man. In case of Shah Rukh Khan’s portrayal of Devdas, he mourns through a sense of still holding on to Paro. Relationships appear to be better defined in the earlier version and hence the sense of vacuum once such relationships dissolve. In the later versions, absence of Paro, is itself a relationship and hence Devdas, emerges from a vacuum into a definitive state through his pining for Paro. While Dilip Kumar’s portrayal could appeal to a society where relationships were firmly defined and hence the undoing of ties meant so much of a vacuum, Shah Rukh’s portrayal of Devdas happened in an age where individuals were relatively free from binding ties and at least craving for Paro became an anchor in the character’s life. While Dilip Kumar’s Devdas sank more and more into himself, becoming denser by the moment like a collapsed star moving towards a black hole that would son draw every moment of the film into the star persona, in Shah Rukh’s version, the star emerges above everyone else through his obsessive attachment to a woman who is not his. A much later production called Dev D, a modern reinterpretation of the almost mythical Devdas, the protagonist moves out of Paro, into Chandramukhi, finding in the latter, a new way of life and a new experience. In the above versions of Devdas, we find that in the former, the individual is defined through a web of relationships, the loss of which sinks him into a vacuum, while in the latter instance, the individual has no stable relationships and finds one to define himself with, namely that of his unfulfilled love, Paro.

There are also differences between how unrequited love is dealt with in the two ages. In the former case, unfulfilled love represented the greatest tragedy of the characters; in the latter period, it became a reason for obsessive behavior. Dilip Kumar in Devdas and Andaz, Raj Kapoor in Teesri Kasam, Waheeda Rahman in Khamoshi were characters who lost their loves. These tragic images contrast sharply with Shah Rukh Khan in Darr, Anjam and Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge and Imran Hashmi in Murder. The succinct sense of tragedy in the age of liberalization is replaced by unrequited love turning into an obsession. Clearly, the sorrow of the age of liberalization is no longer in relationships but in success or failure. Hence when Karz, a film made in 1980 was revisited by yet another film called Om Shanti Om in 2007, the character, unlike in Karz was less pained by his wife’s betrayal and instead felt humiliated because he was never given a chance to become a hero in films. The pain of neo-liberal cinema is not of relationships but of victory and defeat, where relationships are trophies to be savoured. This is why when Karz was remade in 2008 along the lines of the original film in 1980, it fell flat, because relationships no longer define individuals at present than what they used to do. The difference is due to the way individuals and the various constraints on them have been redefined in liberalization.

One of the greatest fall out of neo liberalism’s freeing of the individual from her ties that bind is the rise of Aamir Khan’s brand of films namely Taare Zameen Par and 3 Idiots where the pain of our times have been located and articulated, namely in success and failure. Both such films are about succeeding or not succeeding and the pains of failure. Similarly, in Chak De India, the protagonist, the hockey coach, once again played by Shah Rukh Khan is pained at not only failing to win the gold medal in the World Cup but also being branded as a minority. Failure to win and non performance constitutes his tragedy and not relationships.

The change in the nature of tragedy in cinema reflects the change in the priorities of the society. Indeed, not love nor passion drives people in neoliberalism, but the pursuit of success. This makes the entertainment cinema lose what we had always known as its formula. The formula of the Hindi cinema was about individual agency, efforts of the human beings to overcome their constraints and move towards their goals, the goals being defined by the large body of intertextually related works produced under the banner of commercial cinema from studios of Mumbai and Chennai. The fact of goals being defined and created by the interrelatedness of works towards which individuals must progress and thus insisting on a Hegelian linearity of character consistent protagonists of cinema can only be the formula of a society which is limited but certain in its outcomes. The Hindi cinema thus develops through its protagonist, a critique of the entrenched powers of the society and a theory of constraints that do not allow individuals to climb up social ladders despite the Constitution of Independent India mandating an open society with equal opportunities for all. Needless to say that the Hindi cinema was born out of the Freedom Struggle when the nation was imagined as a universal space in which individuals would exist as individuals beyond those socio-economic particularities of class, caste and creed that defined them and constrained their life chances. The individual was to become free under the aegis of a panoptic State and hence should fight her/his traditions that promoted superstitions, prejudices and preconceptions. The Hindi film critiqued the society from the standpoint of a rationalist, secular and humanist discourse with large supplements of socialistic ideals of equality and redistribution.

However, when economic liberalization took place, apropos to the neo-liberal State everywhere else in the world, the Indian State too was to withdraw as an economic presence and a moral force. It became corporatist in the sense that its expenditure had to be limited through its revenues and this resulted in a large scale and almost shrinking back of the State as a force that ordered the society and economy. Free enterprise, mindless pursuit of private gains and the collapse of institutions of welfare threw the individual into the open sea of ruthless competition. For a while, through the films of Sooraj Barjatya and Karan Johar, the cinema tried to set the large Indian joint family as a support system which very soon collapsed under the weight of a contrary Indian reality in which growing demands for increased income made families greedier and selfish. The formula of the family that survived on socialization and social bonding proved to be economically beyond bounds for most Indians in a system in which income inequalities were only increasing.

As the income gaps became wider and the ideology of equality and upward social mobility continued, there emerged a spate of imitative practices by which the lesser endowed classes in the society could “copy” styles of the better ones and hence disguise themselves as elites that they definitely were not. Soon, the insignia of fashion, perfumes, gaits, hairdo, perfumes and models of mobile phones became markers of social status which in turn helped people to find employment and develop contacts for businesses. The “showy” culture of the Indian society necessitated by the needs of the economic forces of its times pushed the cinema of Bollywood into becoming lifestyle statements. Films like Wake Up Sid, or Oye Lucky Oye and even Dev D explored emotions that were new to cinema but very relevant for the times in which we live.

The individual who apparently is free in a neoliberal State is unfortunately rather unfree because of the various uncertainties in employment and income that she faces. She has to always run in search of employment most of which do not last for more than a few years at best and a few months at least. This instability of employment and income has made the individual acquire a rather tentative self identity and self image; the decline of stardom is an outcome of the decline of a consistent self image of the individual. One of the greatest fall-out of the loss of character consistency is the collapse of the typical song and dance routine. Songs that for the Hindi cinema would emerge out of the story, articulating its moods and discourses have become “item numbers” in Bollywood, being used out of the context of the story and as an addendum more like a garnishing rather than the spices.

In today’s world there are no stable jobs and hence no assured income streams for individuals. Unlike in the days before liberalization, individuals looked for stability in employment, in today’s world; stability means stagnation and often stable poverty. Therefore, individuals would want to hit the jackpot, get huge chunks of money which would then be invested for good returns. The idea of speculative windfalls that can be translated into rental income and in all of this, there is little ends-means relationship of profits to work. The crux of modernity that was based upon returns to labour and which constituted the core of the Hindi film’s morality today makes way for “smarter” people, with supercilious manners and little sense of power of work. Hence Bollywood produces smart alecs, wit, suavity and evasive characters those who know how to manipulate, dodge and slip away; but as creators of social orders taking charge of one’s life they seem to have outlived their age. The characteristics that Bollywood seem to develop in direct contradiction to the constituents of a Hindi cinema formula is thus in response to the neoliberal state in a globalised economy that make nations based on socialism and equality things of the past.

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Media In A Liberalized Economy – A Watchdog or Perpetrator of Myths?

The modern world is witnessing a media revolution. Never before has human history seen such proliferation of investments across the world into television channels, advertisements and broadcasting. It appears that investing into a country’s media properties is lucrative business for global capital. Moreover, globally, the growth of media is higher than the growth of the GDP, which means that the media industry is among the faster growing sectors of the economy. In fact, the global growth of the media industry calculated as a compound annual rate of growth, henceforth the CARG is 6.6 %[1] and this is a contrast to the rather slower growth of world GDP at only 2.7% in 2007.[2] In India, the story is even better. The Times of India reported on the 12th of March, 2006, that the Indian entertainment and media industry is witnessing a phenomenal growth and is slated to grow at 19 per cent CARG to Rs 83,740 crore by 2010 from its current size of Rs 35,300 crore, according to a study by the Pricewaterhouse Coopers.[3] Given the rate of growth of GDP in India at about 8%, the growth in the media is certainly more than double.

What does the media explosion mean for us? On the positive side it means that democracy is taking roots almost universally, communication is addressing a wide variety of interests and the public space of communication is widening to include greater participation from people. But looked at closely, the picture appears suspect. The television channels and other related media activities like outdoor campaigns and radio broadcasting seems to be all doing pretty much the same things. If we observe the television channels or track the FM radio stations, or even scan the leading newspapers, we are struck by almost very similar kinds of news coverage. In deed, the views expressed by the various channels too are perceptively similar. This means that despite the multiplicity of channels we do not get competing and contesting interpretations. In other words, channels do not challenge one another in a battle of views but compete to out perform each other through standard programmes. Teleserials of scheming women, jokes, reality shows, quiz shows, sports and cookery and film gossip form most of what we know as entertainment. The news is invariably a one-sided view of promoting speculative investments, life styles or of political scandals and crime. A vast chunk of reality of technical knowledge, psychological counseling, crime detection, stresses of development, employment trends, assessment of government programmes, and social issues concerning women and minorities are left behind or never addressed at all. This trend is harmful for democracy because on the one hand we get channels that reaffirm a rather one-dimensional view of things and on the other hand the large number of channels crowd out those persons who have less money power to launch channels but may have alternative stories and genuinely educative programmes.

The other fall out of such media explosion is a competition for advertisements. Larger number of television channels put the advertisers in a better bargaining position vis-à-vis the channel owners and this leads to desire of monopolistic concentration among the channels. The liberalization of the FDI is used to increase money and hence monopoly power of the channel. Since channels due to competition among themselves produce only standardized programmes, there is hardly anything in each channel that would help viewers to choose one channel over the other; viewers’ preferences are thus directed towards the channel that provides the most audio-visual intensity. This promotes extravaganza in the television, which raises costs of production and yet at the same time empties the programme of sensitivity. In this way, packaging over content produces meaninglessness in television programmes, opening up the television space to monopoly and one-dimensionality.

The question that we ask here is why do the media all over the world express the same tendency towards one-dimensionality? The prime reason for this is that the television channels compete among themselves. Just as we try to read the same books as our classmates and write similar answers for our examinations in our desire to do well, the channels too try to do the same thing in order to be “selected” by the viewers’ remotes. Yet another possible reason behind this is that since the channels draw their sustenance from corporate advertisements they move in the same set of business houses over and over again. These business houses are eager that the television channels project their interests through the programmes. What are these corporate interests? These interests promote consumerism among the viewers. While promoting consumption of various products like consumer durables, cosmetics, apartments, mobile phones, snacks, fast food and even insurance, it is an absolute necessity that advertisers also covertly push messages and sponsor television content that specifically portray dazzling economies and a plethora of promising opportunities that support an economy and culture driven by consumerism.

Since most people purchase consumer durables like television, washing machines and even apartments through credit, either through the credit card companies or through the equated monthly installment schemes of the dealers, it is clear that these purchases are made on the anticipation of future income. The consumer, in order to be lured into buying these consumer durables must be made to believe that her income flow will not suffer in the future. It is for such reasons that stories that deal with factory closures, farmer suicides, shrinking employment growth, or even economic recession are pushed behind the camera and protests over land acquisition whether in Singur or Nandigram, or even the SEZ in Goa are constructed as a sabotage of this grand process of economic liberalization. In the case of consumer non-durables, or fast moving consumer goods, or FMCG, the pattern is even more sinister. Cosmetics and food items are portrayed as style statements and are projected as symptoms of your social worth. In case these statements influence your employer, it will be difficult to get employment if you do not put on lipstick or use particular brand of a body spray. The companies make crores of money on trying to cow you down into an image that will speak of your uncritical acceptance of the politics of the media imagery. The use of celebrity helps in this process because it somehow communicates to us the attributes we associate with our favorite celebrities into the brands thus advertised and lend legitimacy to these brands.

Mukesh Ambani’s wealth or the posh bungalows of Hollywood film stars that the new life style channels promote try to tell us how wonderful wealth is and how it must be pursued by all in order to find happiness. The use of celebrity images help making very specific instances appear as universally applicable rules and hence such display of celebrity wealth not only legitimizes greed but also communicates a message that such prosperity is achievable. These images form the basis for lifestyle politics where class is defined by what its members consume. Thus aspiring to consume, possess and command is the key to upward social mobility and possession charts form important ingredients of one’s social class and hence of social worth.

It is not as if the media does not help the case of democracy, but the only thing is that it should be sensational enough. Crime is sensational, but an inquiry into its sources is not. Political leaders are sensational, the scandals are sensational but investigation into why people vote for them is not. Even in such reporting, there is no attempt at trying to understand the root of crime, the reasons behind violence. While the media has indeed cried for justice and created in us a demand that people from the upper strata of the society too should fall to the hangman’s noose, and thus pandered to our instincts of social envy of the people who are better off than us, Santosh Singh and his father in this case. Was this story to be retold from the perspective of crime against women, the right that men feel that they have over women’s submission, the assumption that men make that women must acquiesce to their advances we would have developed a critical perspective into the way women are looked upon in our country. Such perspectives would have helped us deal with the mind set that kill fetuses, use technology to give birth to boys only and also make it difficult for women to participate in the work force. It is quite the same thing in case of the Jessica Lall case or even the Nitish Katara case; the roots of violence are not explored.

In the above paragraphs we assume that the viewers uncritically accept the media images that are beamed to them. While it is true that the several channels, despite the severalty communicate to us similar images and similar news content, yet there is an everyday life that people lead and when the images contradict the life, which is actually lived-in, there is a resistance. A classical instance of this is the defeat of the earlier government due to their propaganda of India shining, when the reality was all about locked out enterprises and the swell of unemployed youth in cities, towns and villages across the country. But the problem is that people tend to judge the real life as wrong and the contradictory image in the television as the right. This makes people imagine that they are worth more than what they are getting as their pay packets. Most IT companies hide the fact that the huge salaries are only for the slim percentage of the top brass, the vast bulge of middle level employees are as badly paid as anyone else. The image of the highly paid CEO is important in attracting the talent into the sector and the low salaries to the bulk of the employees are a strategy to get the best by paying the least. This leaves the employee of the middle rung wondering that she actually can earn more and keeps switching employment, depleting her provident funds and seniority. Were we to track the high incidence of mental agony and depression we could find significant connection between the television myths and the shocks of real lived in life. Chetan Bhagat’s novel, One Night @Call Centre illustrates this distress wonderfully. Bhagat writes that the call centre workers use all kinds of theories to explain their agonies but all feel that if they earn enough money that will end their exploitation little realizing that they will never earn the required amount of money because there are others who will earn more than them always.

There is yet another reason why the television channels in a collusive manner must push the hunky-dory stories of good times. If we look carefully into the media inflation we would find that it is far higher than the growth in incomes of its advertisers. If we take into account the growth of the manufacturing sector that has grown 12% over the last one year and the financial sector which has grown by 15% over the same period, we find that the growth of the media is still higher. The sales growth of the FMCG sector is 16%, while that of the infrastructure sector is 8%. The growth in the consumer durable sector is 15%. In all of these, we find that the rates of growth have remained lower than the growth rate in the media. Then where is the media drawing the extra growth over and above the usual growth trend among its advertisers from? There is one sector in which the growth has been astronomical – this is the real estate sector. It is possible that money from the real estate sector is flowing into the media companies, or the financiers of real estate also financing the media sector. Let us address ourselves to the fact that the growth in the media is higher than in the growth of its advertisers and in which case, there is a surplus growth in the media that has to be tracked. Could it be possible that much of the so-called revenues of the media companies only book entries and not actually realized payments? If this was to be the case, then the media companies could only gain by pushing stories of high growth, explosive opportunities and hopeful future so that the consumer demand keeps mounting. This is perhaps the principle reason why stories that may in any way puncture the perfect picture of bliss are to be avoided. If the real estates get involved into the media business as appears to be a possibility with DLF Universal, a leading real estate company of India that sponsored the Indian Premier League cricket, then it is all the more important for them to reinforce the impression that property prices will climb up due to the overall growth of incomes in the economy, so that their profits go higher and higher to finance the high growth rates of the media. In either case, there are sound economic reasons for the media to promote a world of lies that will cover the truth which is of rising income inequality and increased insecurity of livelihood and incomes all over the world.

The tendency of the media to survive on constructed truths than on empirical facts may lead to both national and personal disasters, a matter of serious concern for authorities and viewers alike.

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Mukul Dadu – The Man For Our Family

My earliest memory of Mukul Dadu is a slim frame, curly hair, flat forehead, fair and translucent skin and an ever smiling face. I always saw him in white crisp dhoti and a long “panjabi”. He used to have a light step and moved fast. Whenever the bell rang and I found Mukul Dadu at the door, I would run down the stairs and open the door for him. His coming to our house was like a festival. There would be laughter, conversation, encouragement and inspiration. Dadu who had prolonged spells of depression after Thama’s death and his own retirement would get charged up as soon as he heard Mukul Dadu cheerfully calling out “Chhobuda” at some distance before he actually entered Dadu’s room.

Sometimes Dadu invited his relatives over at our house and insisted that they sing Rabindra Sangeet. Mukul Dadu’s favourite song was “Hey Malati Didha Keno”, and to this day I have never heard a better rendition of the song that his.

Mukul Dadu encouraged me to no end. He appreciated my essays, my discussions and notwithstanding that I was only a school going child inspired me to be an independent thinker. I could never be assured of my performance till Mukul Dadu had a look at my writing and cleared it with lavish praise. He heard with interest my counterarguments against most established thoughts that usually appalled Dadu. But Mukul Dadu never talked me down and instead suggested to Dadu that it was important for children always to learn through arguments than by rote.

Mukul Dadu was briefly away at Nagaland from where he used to write to us. In short and nippy sentences he described his home in Kohima, his work, his colleagues and the change of seasons in the hills.  I remember Baba read the letters several times for their poetic tone yet chatty style. When he heard that Dadu had died he sent us a telegram saying that the demise was an irreparable loss. Baba said that he had never heard of a better way to condole the loss of a loved one than this.

Today I teach University teachers under the UGC programme, I give after dinner talks at University Hostels, and lecture at Seminars on how to look at the world differently than what we usually do. I invariably think that these are just the things that Mukul Dadu predicted that I would do. I often mention Mukul Dadu, who himself was a teachers’ trainer to the teachers who I train and give examples from my conversations with him in those evenings when he, Dadu and I used to have tea with thin arrowroot biscuits sitting out in the balcony of Dover Lane.

Ma taught me that people never end when they die. No one really has died in my life. Thama is not dead, Dadu is not dead and Mukul Dadu, the third of the trinity of my favourites in the grandparent’s generation is not dead either. Whenever I think about Mukul Dadu I discover him anew. Each time I think about him, I hear the assured laughter, I see the confident bearing of the body, and I feel the vivacious energy of a very active mind. A large part of me is what he encouraged me to become and as I think, write, speak and argue his inspiration unconsciously and consciously always works within me.

Happy Birthday, Mukul Dadu,

Pronams,

Mithu

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Barkha Dutt and Vir Sanghvi – Whats The Big Deal?

Yesterday, many of us especially my friends Parvinder and Xavier Dias were posting you tube uploads about how Barkha Dutt and Vir Sanghvi were being paid to act in favour of some corporate entities in India and their politician agents. The transcripts of the conversations between the fixers and the culprits were already out in the websites of Outlook and Mail Today and the Youtube tapes firmed up evidence against these topmost and most admired journalists. As goes the Bengali saying that the ghost has come to reside within the mustard seed, an unfailing ghost busting ingredient, the watch dog is eating out of the hands of the intruder. This is a shame.

I think that the above expose should not shock us. One really does not need to know that news is all bought when television channels incessantly show the tribals who fight for their rights as enemies of the nation, or how anyone who feels uncomfortable with the military presence in Kashmir as being one with the terrorists. The India shining story that evades reportage on how India is slowly accumulating poverty and deprivation even below the levels of sub Saharan Africa, the bandwidths devoted to film stars attending parties thrown by Mumbai builders, the surfeit of reality shows with a total avoidance of facing the reality of India that consists of school drop outs, violence against women, farmer desperations and growing unemployment. These huge lies about India’s real situation and the showcasing of a make belief world where celebrities live with life styles, cuisines, homes and holidays that very few of us can ever hope to attain is a reason enough for us to believe that news is paid for. If television channels are not receiving money for such plastic news then the other possibility is that Indian journos are thick headed, which though fractionally right may not be entirely believable. Then this means that news is generally bought and sold and those with the power of money ride high on eye balls.

Television channels, newspapers and publishing houses have always been owned by moneyed people and in fact by industrialists who have fleeced consumers, evaded the fiscal departments, exploited labour, closed down factories and cheated intermediaries. Yet, the media did not appear to be so much in league with private interests before now. This is because never has the State in India been so closely in collusion with the corporate and so alienated from the people than it is at present. The media, because it is owned by the rich, instinctively aligns with powers that help sustain wealth accumulated by few through means that necessarily have deprived many and most. If newspapers have overwhelmingly supported the opposition party then it is when the latter has developed a chance of winning. If newspapers have leaned towards rebellion, it is because the rebel has a better prospect of winning. Media invariably has always supported the winning horse. In a democracy, winners are likely to circulate and this creates an illusion for us that the media is being democratic. Observed closely, media and power are invariably related and this emanates from the ownership structure of the media.

The problem with the media presently is that the power of the State has shifted from a socialist, nationalist and perhaps even a fascist to being corporatist. Market as the key player in the protection of entitlements and redistribution of wealth has replaced the state as the apolitical and logical infallible force. Media is only being true to its self when it supports the powerfuls in the market place. Where then is the shock factor in Vir Sanghvi and Barkha Dutt being in a happy alliance with such interests?

The above situation could be salvaged if the consumer was economically more powerful than the capitalist where money power was concerned. In that case the consumer could have bought news rather than the capitalists buying media space. But for that to happen, we need a very different kind of economics in which the income redistribution is so effective that capitalists’ profits are scummed away by the workers who are the very consumers when they return home from and richer than their employers in being able to buy the news that they want. In such a scenario news will turn out in favour of the genuine consumer instead of being in the interests of the sponsors, most of who are the same corporations that provide for glossy ads and fancy images and help sustain lies about prosperity. Till then we will have to live with the fact that since the media aligns with the powers that be it will logically tilt towards the corporate entities constituting the most powerful bloc in a market driven State and society.

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16th November – The Day The Fairies Came

 

For me 16th November is the death anniversary of Thama, my father’s mother, known to the rest of the world as Nihar Dasgupta nee Gupta. Thama died after being in a deep coma for three days as her organs started to fail and she progressively slouched into a deep slumber as her life slowly left her. I was only seven years old then and Pam, my brother just over two years. Both of us were shunted out to my mother’s home in New Alipore to get out of the way of the adults as Thama’s condition started to get critical. I never realized the consequences of illnesses and always welcomed when Thama would fall ill and I would have a chance to be evacuated to my mamabari. So when Ma came and packed Pam and my things in a bag saying to me that this time round the stay might be longer, I could only be happy. But Pam, I remember felt bad at leaving Thama behind and stood at the foot of her bed repeatedly calling out to her his goodbye. Only when Thama barely opened her eyes and nodded in acknowledgment did Pam move away.

When I was having dinner on the evening of the 16th November in New Alipore, no one told me that Thama had died late in the afternoon on that day. I was surprised however to find that none among my seven cousins who lived there shared the table at dinner. They were all removed from my vicinity lest they blurt out the news of the death to me. Bachi and Nomama were the two persons who were with me as I tore the rotis to dip into my daal. Dida was serving me the food. Bachi was staying back to look after Pam and I while Nomama was holding fort to take care of the children while all the adults were at Dover Lane, our house. Everything was cleverly arranged to keep me uninformed of the loss. However, in the following morning Tutun found a way to break the news to me. She insisted that I call Dadu up and ask his permission to extend my stay at New Alipore and just to please him with excellent manners, I was to ask how Thama was. When I dialed up home, Dadu answered the phone. He agreed immediately to me staying on in New Alipore and sounded very relaxed and casual, so unlike him. Then I asked about Thama and he said that she was fully recovered and was doing very well indeed. Her back ache, the swelling in her feet, the bedsore, were all gone !! It sounded unrealistically good for me and it was then that I sensed something to be very very wrong. I spoke to Dida saying that I wanted to return back immediately and when Dadu, my maternal grandfather returned from work, I insisted that I be sent to Dover Lane. He agreed and as soon as I finished packing Pam’s and my things into our bag, Bachi who was just back from office escorted us back home.

I reached home to find the main door ajar and lots of people moving about in the house. All the lights were on belying the usual economy in using electricity; I could hear some voices singing songs, fragrance of flowers and incense filled the air. Everything looked so different and unusual in the house. I ran upstairs to look for Thama but I found her room empty. Her bed looked nicely tidied up with a framed photo of hers in her brilliant flashy smile that would light up her eyes, resting against her pillows with fresh covers on them and a thick sweet smelling garland of white flowers. What happened to Thama, I asked totally puzzled. All of a sudden Ma emerged out of the milieu of people moving around, talking among themselves in low voices. She took me aside and sat me down on the steps of our staircase. Then Ma told me of the grand spectacle I missed. Thama was suffering and so God wished to relieve her. There descended a fairy just like in Cinderalla in a beautiful glass carriage full of flowers. With a magic wand she dressed up Thama in a lovely sari, garlands, perfumes and jewellery and then as sweet music played and fireworks went off, the fairy lifted her up to the sky and flew away spreading lights as they went. 16th November that year was Guru Govind’s Birth Anniversary and due to some Sikh families and a Gurudwara in our locality celebrations were on with shabad, lights and fireworks. The glass carriage of Cinderalla in my mother’s story was the hearse van. Ma made death appear to me like a fairy tale and even till this day I have felt sad when people die but never have been able to look upon death as anything but beautiful. Thama’s death is always a beautiful event in my life, a day to remember; just the way my mother described it to me. 16th November is a day when fairies came to our house.

Thama lived life kingsize. She was a celebrity, a socialite. She had a brilliant mind, Calcutta University Gold Medallist twice over, a witty, intelligent and an endearing conversationist who had no qualms about snubbing those who could not match up to her brilliance. She knew how to save money and yet maintain a standard of life that had holidays, restaurants, theatres, film shows and parties. She was a keen investor and believed in building assets. She had a great foresight in terms of how human beings would turn out, the mistakes servants could make, when water could run out, when land prices and gold rates would rise, who had the potential to succeed and whose business could fall into penury. She came from a modest social background but had friends in very high places; she was socially sought because of her sharp mind, sharper wit and her lashing tongue. She was intolerant of mediocrity, very exacting in her standards, ruthlessly organized and merciless of the careless. But despite her high spirits and arrogance, she was always fatigued, a trait that I seem to have inherited. She never worked because she could not manage a home and profession; I never married because of the same reason. In her times, Thama chose marriage over profession; in my times I chose my work over home. Physical fatigue seem to have capped capabilities in both our cases.

When I was born, as it is customary to gift gold to grandchildren, Thama gave me a golden crown !  She pushed me to be worthy of it and while she was around, I excelled in anything that I did. She knew how to get there and be there. A little while after she married my grandfather’s family fell into bad times. They were driven out of their homes which English interior designers had done up because their father died without having saved enough for lavish lifestyles. And soon in the Mallik Bazaar area, there was yet another family of the fallen Mughals, the Dasguptas. Thama’s pragmatism lifted Dadu up from this vortex of unpreparedness to face a life in cramped small apartment homes. She built brick by brick stability in finances, goaded Baba to study and perform well and supported Dadu like a rock in his career. She was very good at socializing and her social contacts and popularity along with her foresight in material affairs saw my grandfather find his feet again. Thama’s concerns for my studies, my well being, and my health gave me a hard time and I never felt myself free under her watchful gaze. No wonder then my sojourns into New Alipore were such escapes for me. But I never resented her; even as a child I could feel through her panoptic disciplinarian ways, her obsessive love for me. I loved being loved so intensely by her.  After Thama died, my academic and extracurricular performances dipped, our family no longer felt pushed into any kind of achievement, relaxed and slopped off.

Thama used to be often irritable and even angry. She was sensitive to disorder, of things not being quite within her control. What rattled her most were people falling ill. Baba could never afford to injure himself as a child, because Thama would get upset; I used to run the entire length of the house to sneeze so that Thama would not catch me having a cold. She hated mundane things bothering her and illness used to be one such dispensable affair. She would spend time for herself, sitting in the sun by the window on the south writing letters to her woman friends, laughing while she wrote out her quintessentially witty lines. She was meticulous and systematic; everything had their place, all papers filed neatly, all clips kept firmly in their places and her fashion accessories that consisted of bags, slippers, parasols, jewellery, brooches and gem studded hair pins were immaculately stored alongside her saris. She had friends in Sri Lanka and Burma and good things were abundant in her possessions. She was a very fashionable woman, dressed ahead of her times, smelt good with expensive perfumes and the gajras of beliphool that she loved so dear. Unlike my paternal grandfather’s family, Thama was not westernized. She was a Bengali bhadralok, starched cotton saris, Bengali cuisine, Bengali literature, Bengali music and Bengali drama. She was even a bit contemptuous of the Brahmo culture that so marked the Dasguptas.

One day I sat with Ma and both of us were watching the monsoon clouds that were heavy with moisture slowly shed rain and become light enough to drift again. Ma said that when humans die souls mingle with God just like water evaporates into the clouds. Then it rains and in that rain one could no longer find that drop of water that had evaporated into the cloud. I was disappointed at my prospect of not finding Thama in her rebirth. Slowly as I am growin old, I am becoming more and more like her. I have a similar knack for intuiting about things to come, a similar agitation about my home and family getting unsettled, about people not performing well, the same irritation with silly clerks behind desks, the same way of keeping my spaces well organized, the same hyperactive mind but the phelgmatic and fatigued body with a tendency to tire out soon from physical exhaustion. I have the same way of sitting by the sun and writing notes for friends in the facebook. I think that the large cloud that contained Thama has sometimes rained on me.

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Dida 100 Years

Fifty years before now, my maternal grandfather, Saradindu Gupta built his house in New Alipore. He called his home Indulok, after the suffix that all the male members of the male side of the family bore. They were called Amalendu, Dibyendu, Nabendu, Soumyendu and so on. It was my mamabari and hence my space of utmost indulgence and leverage; I called it as the Palace of the Moon. It was a sprawling bungalow of about 8000 square feet on each of its two floors, a long train like servants quarters that had three rooms. The house also had patios, porches, balconies, verandahs, French windows, lawns, flower beds, kitchen gardens, pump house and a fountain!. It had large rooms, living rooms, a study room, an office room, formal dining area with brass grilled partitions that marked it out from the rest of the space, There was a pantry and a huge kitchen zone with a store, washing area, a family dining room with an attached toilet and a veritable fireplace in the ostentatious drawing rooms, one in each floor. On the drawing room of the ground floor was a piano forte that my very musical aunts and uncles played. The house had two sets of staircases, a smaller one at the rear wing and in the front a wide one that curved down into a reception area over which hung a chandelier. There were built in woodwork in the rooms, almirahs with sliding panels in the bathrooms, glass panes in the windows, concealed lights, and plaster of Paris coats on walls and rich designs on the ceiling. Sometimes the house had as many as thirty members in it, waking up, sleeping off, eating, bathing, studying, going to work, playing, singing, dancing, partying or just chatting or telling stories to children. In this house, every space contained Dida, my mother’s mother, who was exactly 50 years of age, my present age when she became the sole mistress of this estate.

It is interesting that I should associate Indulok so much with Dida when it had all my cousins, Bachi and Bulimashi, with manis and mamas in it. I hardly spoke to Dida and she to me. She picked me up from my home in Dover Lane on Saturday mornings on her way back to New Alipore from Gariahat market, her weekly chore. That was the only time I looked forward to her. Through the drive back to New Alipore, she and I hardly spoke. I was not afraid of her, because I knew that she would never raise her voice with me, but I knew all along that she and I had no common interest. Yet, every frame of Indulok, whenever scenes from those years flash past me, has Dida in it. Dadu sold off Indulok after Dida died; the house was too much hers to have a life of its own without her. Indulok could possibly have no memories without Dida being the centre of those.

I see Dida in the kitchen, organizing meals, I see her serving us food in the dining room, I see her bringing in the caramelled doi from the fridge, pounding chhana for her sandesh, stirring soufflé, laying out paan, mashing kuls for pickles, cleaning prawn for malai kaari and blowing into hot milk to bring it to the right temperature where I could drink it. I see her winding up after a very long day’s work, shutting one door after the other as she walked the long corridors, with her paan in hand, retiring to her bedroom with the large bunch of keys clanking heavily. I see her in the evening, doing aaroti in her very large and thoroughly untidy room. When we would go for the pujos to Nirole, Dida would be the most visible and omnipresent person in the kitchen and in the mandir. What my mother and aunts do together, Dida would do it all by herself and run things so smoothly that no one ever had to lift a finger. She had an enormous capacity for work, almost like the genie, definitely not normal, and in fact downright eerily supernatural.

She was a small woman, petite and light, almost thin and we all wondered whether she had a wound from slinging that heavy metal of the keys over her shoulders with the aanchal of her saari. She wore her saari draped and not pleated; she had a huge family to look after and hardly ever had the time to look after herself. I suspect that she never combed her hair; she oiled it well and the natural fall made it appear well-groomed. But that was all. She never wore ornaments and only two thin bangles perhaps as a sign of her husband being alive hung limply on her. When in the penultimate years of her life she fractured her wrist, the bangles had to be cut out. That was it, the bangles put on her wrists before the aeons of time had no other reason to return to her when the plaster was taken off. Her cupboards were stuffed with expensive saris that she got as gifts from her children and her bank lockers had ornaments that only a few can ever have. But she remained unattached and indifferent to all her possessions. If she valued anything at all then they were old saris which she could recycle as bandages and the borders that were useful in setting up mosquito nets.

Dida worked as though everyday was the last day of her life. She knew everything; cooking, removing stain from cloth, ironing woolen suits and silk sarees, stitching, darning, tying bandages, dressing wounds, opening locks, fixing plugs, tying immersion rods, tuning in radios, baking, roasting, grilling, garnishing and decorating food trays. She did tire herself out, she fell down from the steps of Kamakhya Mandir in Nirole out of sheer exhaustion and the soles of her feet were punched by hard corns and stiff calluses. But she went on, like a woman condemned doing so, as if like the mythical Sisyphus she was carrying out a sentence. When she had her hysterectomy, she soon had hernia because in a family as large as the one she always had, there was never any rest for her. The only story she ever told me on one of our journeys to New Alipore in the wide black Dodge with its immaculate white seats was that of Sindbad the sailor and of that man who was cursed to forever ferry people from one end of the river to another and never had a chance to free himself. I was only seven years of age then, but I remember clearly that I thought to myself for a long time that morning why Dida ever told me that story.

I often heard my manis cringe at why Dida never delegated her powers to any of her daughters-in-law. She kept everything well under her control never wanting to share that control. I used to think of her as being power hungry, somewhat like Indira Gandhi, both born in the month of November, both Scorpions, as I learnt from Mejomani. But somewhere the picture did not seem right. I think that Dida had no idea of power, far less she thought of herself as the boss. She was a worker, who worked to earn herself an existence. She belonged to a family of all girls, her father having died very early and with that one catastrophe in her life, she was relegated into the category of being a burden. She knew that she had to work very hard in order to be fed and in that way, she considered herself a mere worker and not the mistress of one of the largest houses in the City of Palaces. I think that my mother has inherited this mentality because even at the age of seventy, she imagines that she has always to perform to earn her lunch. Dida was the first one from whom I heard the phrase, albeit in Bengali, that there are no free lunches.

She had some strange anxieties. There was large mezannine over a garage that could contain four cars and this mezannine was used up to stock potato and onions. Dida had a fear of the famines and wars, when food could run out. We used to laugh at her not realizing that she had seen the Bengal Famine, the Partition, two world wars, and when Dadu was once posted in the Afghanistan border she knew of snows on the Hindukush mountains that could cut off supplies for days together. And then, perhaps, just my fancy, she may have also known hunger herself as a wife and mother who had to eat only after a large family was properly fed.

Dadu and Dida had been to England. So did Boromama and Boromani. But among them, Dida was the one who told me of the escalator and the departmental store, the first time I ever heard of them. She told me of the Sanjha Chula, also the first time ever I heard of this evening culture of Punjab. These were sudden sentences that she would blurt out while sipping hastily through her evening tea which she poured out from the cup to the saucer to cool it off. She never had the time for leisure because of the enormous load of housework in a family that always seem only to grow through marriages and birth of children.

Dida had huge doses of nervous energy. She hardly ever rested, and I suspect she thought that resting would be a waste of time. So even when she would lie down for an hour after having been on her feet already for eight hours since the six in the morning, she would listen to dramas on the radio. She was also a voracious reader; the one thing I never saw her without is a book, or a magazine, or a newspaper. She read novels, short stories, and even poetry; often whatever she could lay her hand on. She read only Bengali; I was so surprised to learn from my mother when I was still a child that she knew no English because at that age I assumed that everyone goes to English medium schools. That was the only time I ever learnt of Dida’s life, as a living instance of a girl taken away from school and hastily married off in order to be reduced as a burden to her family after she lost her father. Dida, I suspect always thought of herself as a burden and the way she worked like a hag was to plead to all of us that after all she had a use for us and a reason to be sheltered.

Despite her huge presence in the house, Dida was a closed person. I never really knew her; I never knew what she liked and what she did not. She cooked much but ate very little, guilty always of her existence; she took from the world only that was barely essential. But of her preferences, the colours she liked, the songs she would like to hear, the books she would like to read and the places to would want to visit remain unknown to me. She was a workaholic and had an enormous capacity to focus on the job at hand; this is why she could manage a household of thirty members as though there were only three! But while she was into all of this physically, her soul was away somewhere, in a world of her own, a world that memories of only a few snatches of conversation made me construct much later. My mother tells me that she loved our home in Dover Lane because it was small and manageable; where the family was small enough to sit and have leisurely chats into the late hours after dinner. Dida once spoke fondly of her sister and her husband, an elderly couple who retired to Puri and how happy they were because they just had each other and spent time playing cards. I thought that Dida secretly hoped for a small family, where members lived closely with one another, with more time for each other and indeed less of drudgery.

I connect this what Boromani used to say of Dida and which is that Dida came from a family of ICS incumbents and actually she was from the creamiest of creamy layers of the society, fallen into bad times after her father died while she still was a child. The aristocratic education and the high society that would have been hers were denied to her by cruel fate. The large family ethos was more from Dadu’s world in rural Bengal, where more number of children mean greater prosperity. Dida came from the urbanized sophisticated background, where intimate relations in marriage and small but tightly bonded family were preferred. I think that it was Dida who brought in the “blue blood” of Indulok and raised her children to such heights; for she and not Dadu had the ethos of high society and high culture and knew of worlds of success and social status.

Ma tells me that Dida was a sensitive person, often like Bachi, Bulimashi and herself given to shedding tears in silence. Interestingly, I never saw Dida cry, not even when Bachi married and went away and Bulimashi went abroad after her wedding. I never saw her cry when her sisters passed away; she never cried when Pintu mama died so young. But once I did see her eyes glisten and go moist and that was when Boromama left Indulok to move to Jodhpur Park. Dida stood there with her hand on Nondini’s head as she caressed her and when she bade them farewell, I did see her fight her tears back. I never saw Dida attached to anyone or anything, the nights she stayed up for people, her nursing of the sick, her attending of the indisposed were done so much with a cold efficiency that she could well be a dedicated nurse. But on that day, I felt that among all of us, it was Nondini that she loved so dear; it was her leaving home that finally punched her heart. Dida never displayed any affection openly, but in my mind I thought that this was the only child who she cared for so much that she risked some expression.

When Dida died, strangely I was not sad. I was sad for my mother and her siblings, but personally Dida and I had little emotional bonds. Besides I remembered her telling me of a fantasy she often had one evening when we were visiting New Alipore that she would like to be in a vehicle, a train, a bus, or a car, anything that would just drive on through the cities, fields, mountains, and deserts and along the rivers and seas and which would never stop anywhere. This was much of what she was in her own life, always going on and never stopping; but in her death I could feel her live her secret life of a traveler who never would have to get off anywhere.

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4th of November – The Day Dadu Died

Some thirteen years ago, when the glorious lightness of Autumn mornings snailed towards the heavy mist of winter, my maternal grandfather, Saradindu Gupta died in the afternoon of the 4th of November. I had already moved my base to Delhi but my brother and mother gave me a blow by blow account of how Dadu spent the day he died. It seems that he rose early as was his habit and took his morning walk, returned, opened his keds and true to his routine, used a white chalk liquid to clean it and put it out in the sun to dry. Then he relaxed into his bedroom slippers and had his morning tea. He spoke to my father about affairs of the country as usual and reminisced a bit about his days and times from another era. Dadu, on that day, was already 97 years and 4 months old. He then took his paper and pen and with his neat handwriting wrote out his own brief of a criminal suit that he was filing against one of his coparceners in his village over some land dispute. He had for three months by then been studying Criminal Procedures against land appropriation and he issued law books from the libraries of one of the many companies on whose board he served as a member. After he completed writing his brief by hand, he sent someone, I forget who, to photocopy the papers. The person who carried the papers as well as the person who photocopied amazedly inquired whose hand writing it was that looked so much as if the words were printed. At 97 years, he had an unbelievably steady hand.

After the exercise in writing was over, Dadu ate his breakfast consisting of an assemblage of fruits, raw garlic and some milk. I forgot whether he ate toast or not. Then he had his shave using his electric shaver. At 97 his hand was steady for this too. After the shave he had his bath and prepared himself for a meeting that was held in our house. He dispensed with his colleagues by mid morning and sorted out some papers filing them carefully and arranged them in a suitcase. By the time he finished this task at hand it was time for his lunch. Dadu ate his daal and bhaat with torkari and bhaja and a piece of fish and finished his meal off with plain doi and a sandesh. He sat around for a while with his own readings which would usually be one of the Purans; he was obsessed with Sanskrit texts and could read the language fluently. He then had a brief nap. At about 2.30 pm he rose from his siesta and watched the cricket match on television. At about 3.15 he woke our maid Alpona up and asked her to call my mother and to tell her that he was not feeling well. Ma rushed up because Dadu was usually in the pink of health. Dadu told her calmly that he felt as if he was feeling very uneasy. But he did not lie down immediately. He went to the bathroom and relieved himself first so that the final call of death would not catch him unprepared. Ma asked his advice on whether she should call Boromama, a doctor. Dadu said that it would be indeed a good idea. As Boromama and Nondini (Boromama’s daughter) drove down to our house, Ma and Pam were standing by his side; Dadu quietly removed his spectacles, put them in the case, took off his hearing aid and put it in its box, slowly turned to his side and declared that he was having a heart attack. Then he closed his eyes slowly and deliberately and breathed his last. The time by the clock was 3.30 pm.

It was a long journey for Dadu which ended on that day. Born to a modest family of Sanskrit teachers in a village in Bardhhaman, Dadu rose by the dint of his merit. He excelled academically and grew to be a man who despite not being fortunate to have an elite background was confident and arrogantly self assured. He was a great success with his British employees, being more of a Brit than his masters. He looked after a large family of widowed sisters and sisters who decided never to go to their in-laws and had eight children. For most of his life he spent as a banker with the Imperial Bank in West Punjab, which is now Pakistan. He never quite forgot those days of immense happiness in Lahore, Faizlabad, Marhi and Karachi. He loved the fragrances of its earth and the champa flowers, of which he spoke often and adored the lovely girls of Lahore with bright salwar suits and colourful silken parandhis on their plaits. He loved the snows on the mountains from which in summer he could see the valleys of Afghanistan. He spoke often of the Pathans, the dry fruits, the thick milk in brass tumblers that was served at “tea time” in Imperial Bank. After Partition, he came to reside in Kanpur where he spoke of sprawling staff quarters of the State Bank, which was the sovereign avatar of the Imperial Bank, and of its mango gardens. After he retired from the bank, he was employed with the Martin Burn Group of Companies from where his fortunes only rose in a steep linear curve. He built one of the largest houses in Kolkata, rode a wide black Dodge driven by Abbas, a faithful who accompanied him after the borders were set up dividing Pakistan and India. In cricket matches, Abbas and Dadu both supported Pakistan.

Slowly Dadu’s empire crashed. Abbas grew old and left him. His sons left him one by one as their families grew larger. The large house that he called Indulok started looking deserted and even haunted by memories of laughter and merriment of toddlers, their young mothers and cheerful fathers, their argumentative ayahas and garrulous cooks. One day Dida passed away too. Dadu had calculated his savings to last till about his 65 years of age and when he lived on and on; penury hit him because the discounted value of money and the inflation that eroded his capital. Finally he sold his house and after a brief stay with Mejomama, he came to stay with us at Dover Lane. My mother had the least time to stay with her parents because she was married off at the youngest age. She had a renewed lease of spending time with her father. Dadu also had a chance to stay with Ma, who, I suspect was his favourite daughter, if not the favourite child. Dadu’s passing away did not leave a vacuum; it fulfilled us with the event of a death that was an ideal way to literally hang up the boots.

I used to be greedy about only one of Dadu’s possessions. This was a set of four boxes that looked like books held together in a small book case. These boxes were actually clip boxes which one could use for gem clips, stapler and alpins. When I finally went down for his shraddha, I saw that Dadu had left that set of boxes for me on his shelf where his copy of the Gita also rested. I inherited what I always dreamt would someday be mine.

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Bhai Phnota

Bhaiyer kopaale dilam phnota,

Jomer duare porlo knaata,

Jomuna deye Jomke phnota

Ami diy aamaar bhaike phnota.

This was the montro that we had to say as we put a phnota of chondon, kaajal and ghee on our brother’s foreheads. If the brother was older then we touched his feet, and if he was younger then he touched our feet. But on all cases, the sister would do a aashirbaad, irrespective of the age of the brother with dhaan and dubbo. Gifts were exchanged often of equal value; Re 1, Rs 2, a chocolate, a comic of Amar Chitra Katha or a ladybird fairy tale. That was all. Gifts were supposed to emerge out of pocket money. When brothers grew up and sisters got married, gifts could be unequal, each according to his or her capability, no competition, no matching up to each other.

My girl cousin, Jhumi used to often feel upset at the way a special ashon was laid for the boys, with food offered to them by the side of a lit oil lamp. Why bhaiphnota and why not bon phnota she would ask? The rest of the girls would nod to her rebellious assertions that sisters too should be pampered but none really questioned the ceremony. The menu of radha ballabhi and aloo dam followed by vegetable chop and mishti were too preoccupying and then we got involved in the opening up gifts to discover all favourite stuff among the simple pencils, pencil boxes, note books, hanky sets and so on. Bhai phnota was the modest, tapered off finale to the Durga pujo vacations for us, preparing us mentally to be at school the following morning.

 Bhai phnota is not raakhi. They are rather different festivals. In raakhi, a sister asks the brother to protect her. In the medieval traditions of India, the job of protecting a woman was done by the brother and not the hero, as in the Hindi film formula influenced from the West. In bhai phnota the sister prays for her brother’s life; she prays to Jom (Yama) to spare her brother by asking him to think of Jomuna, his sister. The sister equates herself with Jomuna and appeals to Jom to see her in the same way. Bhai phnota is not the helpless cry of the sister to her brother s as in raakhi. In raakhi, the sister must seek the brother, even if she does not have one, she must look for one. In bhai phnota, quite the contrary happens. It is the brother who must find the sister for she alone can negotiate directly with Jom by citing all kinds of parallels with Jomuna and so on.

The structure of bhai phnota emanates out of Bengal’s tradition of women as saviours. As Behula, she becomes capable of negotiating with Monosha that her newlywed husband, Lokhinder be resurrected. As Khona, she sees far ahead into the future when clouds would seed rain. As Saratchandra’s heroines she feeds the hungry, chaperons the victim of his father’s wrath, and does justice to the wronged. As the heroine of Meghe Dhaka Taara, she pulls her family out of the abyss of dislocation through Partition. Women as mothers and sisters have always been capable of protection; they have the ability to organize the bachelor’s world. Mother’s can organize tiffin, wait outside schools and tuition centres for eternity, then bring the child back feeding him bananas or sandesh on the way back; they are the ones who pray for us to pass in examinations that we have not studied for. Sisters are the ones who seem to be organizing a brother’s life for him, putting his things in place, filling up his forms, getting his papers photocopied, buying his tickets on the net, picking him up from the railways stations, dropping him to the airports, the Bengali sister has done it all. If she happens to be an older sister, then the brother gets the bonus of a mother in her and can drop in anytime for meals, ask her to fetch things for him, to get his income tax papers in order and even talk to her contacts to secure for him some opportunities of employment and self employment. Most of the times, the sister hails a taxi, asks for directions on the road and negotiates with authorities in case of any transgress of law that the brother has done.

The sister as a protector of the brother in the ritual of the bhai phnota is only a formal acknowledgment of her role as her brother’s savior and not the other way round as it is in raakhi. The sister in the rituals of bhai phnota is assumed to be older because she does the aashirbaad irrespective of whether she touches his feet or he touches hers in the end. The sister in raakhi is always essentially younger, irrespective of her order of birth because the brother is her protector. The brother by the fact of his gender is a senior in raakhi; in bhai phnota, the feminine gender is assumed to be the senior. In Manna Dey’s famous song, Shey Amar Chhotobon, the younger sister is portrayed as all round support to a much older brother, whether as a guide to his professional achievements or as his emotional support or as an advisor in matters of everyday life.

The system of the Dayabhaga property in Bengal has perhaps something to do with the power of the sister in the family. In this system, unlike in the Mitakshara followed all through the Northern and central India, the man inherits property as a member of the undivided Hindu family. In Dayabhaga, the man inherits his property as an individual member of the family. This helps a man in Dayabhaga to be more in control of his property and choose his legatees. This is how girls in Bengal have sometimes benefitted through their fathers; the idea of the father’s girls is more common in Bengal than anywhere else. The position of the girl is marginally better here and domestic violence is more possible at her in-laws than within her father’s family, though food deprivation, burden of household chores and care of younger siblings are very much a part of a girl’s unmarried life. Property rights are crucial to gender powers; the crux of cultural differences may well lie in the customs defining the property matters and in Bengal, since laws relating to inheritance are slightly tilted in favour of the girl, she has more power to pray for her male siblings.

Bhai phnota like Deepavali falls in the bleak phase of the moon. The nights are as yet deathly dark and Yama, the God of Death, stalks around looking for his prey. On bhoot chaturdashi, lamps are lit and choddo shaak is consumed like Popeye’s spinach that is supposed to make us immortal. Then on the darkest night we light lamps and make noise through crackers to scare away Yama; sometimes at Kalipuja we catch hold of his vahana, the buffalo, and chop his head off to dislodge its rider. Finally on bhai phnota day the sister emerges, for it is only she who through her powers and prowess can negotiate with Yama and suggests that he seek shelter in Yamuna, his sister, because after all that bursting of crackers, slaying his buffalo and lighting of the lamps of life, sure Yama’s life is in danger. Only with the sister’s fortification can Yama, the Lord of Death, be saved.

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