Globalizing Puffed Rice: Our Very Own Medinipuri Muri

[Our every day journey from Calcutta to Haldia and back, occasions so many interesting stories that a crazy writer would joyfully suffocate under the pressure of material that is available in abundance. At least that is what I feel. All you need to do is keep all your senses wide awake, and wind your brains in registering whatever is happening around you. A blue-print of a short story can be prepared everyday, without fail. The material that you gather only needs a little bit of structuring…that’s all.]

Three of my colleagues, Debnath, Krishanu and Sagar arrived at the Mecheda station at 9.50 am. They were just in time to catch the 10 o’clock bus that would drop them at the college gate at the desired time. Selection of the right kind of bus is of utmost importance; for there are quite a few buses which can extend your 1 hour 10 minutes journey blissfully beyond two hours or more, stopping now and then and pulling sleeping passengers out of their mosquito-nets to join you in the bus. So the threesome hurried past coolies and teeming thousands on the foot bridge to catch the ‘superfast’.

Sagar, the shortest and the most gullible of the three, ran ahead for he was iron-willed to take a window-side seat, while Debnath and Krishanu, as they always did, followed him in their typical ‘bindas’ way, joking and jeering. Sagar in his jet-plane speed bumped into people who welcomed him with the most unspeakable abuses much to the joy of the other two who always revelled in such things…they were like school boys newly educated in the birds and bees of life.

Finally, however, they succeeded in boarding the bus they had been targeting to catch. Due to a traffic jam on the highway, the buses were delayed. Debnath, Krishanu and Sagar thanked their luck; for the first time in life, a traffic jam seemed to have worked in their favour. More so, for Sagar; for he found a two-seater empty, which meant, his much sought-after window-side was waiting for him. He elbowed his way through the passengers to grab the seat, while Debnath and Krishanu were not left with better choices but to opt for the long back-seat that assured, if not anything else, a good amount of jerky rocking. They hardly knew that all wasn’t too well, after all. The right bus, seats, and on-time arrival in college are a bit too much to ask for when it came to travel up and down Haldia highway.

Sagar, too happy with his window-side, ventured into mimicking living room comfort by opening the “Ananda Bazar Patrika” and munching on ginger biscuits. He was, as it were, shaken back to reality, when a man with an intimidating gruff voice charged him, “Hey mister, that’s my seat. Leave it.” Sagar was flummoxed but he soon collected himself and retaliated, “What the hell, ah? What do you mean? What’s the proof that this is your seat?” The man was too smart to be put off; he retorted in a cool voice, “I had left the newspaper on this seat, which you are currently reading, as a proof that the seat belonged to me.” Sagar was at his wit’s end already. He was not intelligent enough to carry on arguments intelligently. Debnath and Krishanu, always on the look-out for fun, came to his rescue. Krishanu said, “Dada, how dare you accuse him of taking your newspaper? You are actually calling him a thief indirectly”. The man with a gruff voice was incorrigible: “What do you mean by ‘indirectly’? I am directly calling him a thief. Not only has he robbed me of my seat, he has also taken my newspaper without my permission.” Sagar was infuriated. He had bought the newspaper at Howrah station. He could not believe that such a low class man was suspecting his dignity. He fumbled and mumbled aloud his anger, not knowing exactly what to say: “Hey, you…how dare you? You are crossing your limits…I have bought this newspaper myself…no two ways about that…do you know who you are talking to? I am a lecturer of a college…how dare you talk to me like that?” Krishanu quietened him, taking the lead in the quarrel: “When I boarded the bus I saw a few puffed rice on the seat. Did you reserve your seat with puffed rice? If that is so, then I must say it was indeed a novel idea!” Debnath nodded his agreement adding, “Yes, yes…he is right! There wasn’t any newspaper, there were a few puffed rice scattered on the seat. But we did not know that those could indicate that the seat was already reserved.”

Before the man with the gruff voice could protest, an older man belched out his exasperation, “Naughty idiotic chaps! Calling Medinipur muri (puffed rice)? These guys from the city would come to Medinipur for work, and would insult the natives also? Just imagine how horribly ungrateful these guys are!” Both Krishanu and Debnath, known for their biting tongues, were rendered speechless. They could not really get a hang of what this man was trying to say. What was the connection, anyway? The quarrel revolving around the window-side and the newspaper suddenly took a completely different direction. The man with a gruff voice was also diverted. However, he soon joined the old man for he suddenly realized that he had got a supporter: “You are right, baba…these chaps from the city are a bit too smart.” It was not long before that Debnath verbally pounced on this old man, demanding an explanation: “Hey, what do you mean? What Medinipur and muri are you grumbling about? Did we tell you anything?” The old man was not to be put down: “Hello! Don’t pretend innocence, okay? You know very well what you said. Didn’t you try to make fun of us? I mean the people of Medinipur? You know very well that we love muri…don’t you?” Krishanu, who was the originator of the muri-dastaan, got the point, “O you mean to say we equated you Medinipuris with muri? O my God, believe me this metonymy was unintended!” Debnath was annoyed limitlessly, for he was himself born and brought up in Medinipur: “You know, I also belong to this place…what crooked people, I must say…This Medinipur-muri equation did not strike me once…and look at you, you old bones, so much narrow-mindedness!” The old man got one more point to lash out at Debnath: “Look at yourself. I am ashamed that being a Medinipuri you are not stopping your city-bred colleague from insulting us. Look, what the city has done to your sensibilities!” Debnath was dumbfounded; yet he was not the one to be defeated. He was about take the man to task, when a man from the back shouted out something that silenced everyone for a while before the whole bus was in splits: “ Dada (addressing the old man), why are you making a nuisance of yourself by making muri a regional food? Such regionalism is a punishable offence. Muri is an international snack and you are hell-bent on regionalizing it by confining it to Medinipur only? What a dire offence, dada! Such regionalism would not be tolerated in this global world.” He winked at Debnath, “What do you say?” Debnath was more than inspired to take off from there. But the whole bus burst into a choric laughter, sweeping away Debnath’s anger. He too joined in. The old man realizing his defeat, turned away, grumbling to himself. By that time, the bus had traversed quite a long distance down the highway. The man with a gruff voice had already forgotten what he had been quarrelling about, much to the relief of Sagar, who had been apprehending more humiliation. The man got down for his destination had come, leaving Sagar in his imagined living room comfort. Debnath and Krishanu busied themselves with the man who had plunged into their delightful rescue. It was not long before they would reach college and begin another day.

How I Wept for Maneck Kohlah: Existentialist Meaninglessness in Rohinton Mistry’s "A Fine Balance"

Rohinton Mistry is one of the diasporic Indian authors who fascinate me immensely. In fact, my obsession with Mistry is so great that I took up his fictional works as my subject of research. Of his four works, it is Family Matters which in my opinion is most touching. However, surprisingly enough, the novel which initially seemed endlessly long—the very length appeared so intimidating that I took it up not too happily, left me crying. It’s A Fine Balance, Mistry’s epic narrative of the horrendous Emergency that tore the country in the late 70s. I hardly knew then that I would get so involved with the “accidental family” comprising two low class tailors, a middle-aged peevish Parsee widow, and a young Parsee boy from the hills that I would end up living through their joys and sorrows.

Coming from the hills, Maneck Kohlah finds it difficult to adapt himself to the indiscipline of the college hostel, and puts up as a paying guest with Dina Dalal, his mother’s childhood friend. Dina Aunty, as he calls him, was widowed at a very young age, and had not been able to remarry owing to a strong attachment with her husband’s memories, though potential proposals had come her way more often than not. As a means of earning livelihood, she took up tailoring. It is quite late when she gets attached to Au Revoir, an international garment company, for which she needs to hire two tailors, Om and Ishwar. These two tailors too have an interesting past. To evade oppression in remote villages, they give up their ancestral profession. They become tailors for to live the life of chamaars is like dying into life everyday. These four become a family through several ups and downs. The bonding that is established between them is worth envying, especially in a world suffering from the incurable monster of a disease called loneliness. However, Maneck has to return to the mountains and from there he migrates to Dubai. Meanwhile Ishwar, Om and Dina suffer unspeakable tragedies for no faults of their own. The demonic Emergency laws victimize them making life a hell. Dina, most sceptical and too overtly suspicious of the tailors, is the one who finally lends out a hand of friendship when both of them have been dismembered and dehumanized beyond recognition. Maneck remains unaware of the fate that strikes Om and Ishwar. When he comes back to Bombay after a gap of eight years, things had changed so much so that he starts feeling the intensity of a loss so profound that he kills himself.

It is the last scene of the novel that would leave any sensitive reader flummoxed and he/she almost wishes he/she were within the diegesis of the narrative to save Maneck from throwing himself on to the gleaming railway tracks. Maneck goes to visit Dina Aunty to find that she has shifted to her brother’s. He learns that Om and Ishwar are going to be there soon. Being in a hurry to catch the flight to Dubai, he leaves promising to come back soon. Round the corner of the road, he sees two beggars approaching. He does not recognize them at first. He realises soon much to his dejection that the beggars are none but his beloved Om and Ishwar. Ishwar sitting on a platform with wheels is being pulled by Om. He is so terribly flabbergasted that he does not respond to Om and Ishwar pleading with him for alms. He is speechless. He fails to act. Back to the station from where he is head to the airport, he commits suicide.

We soon learn that Om and Ishwar had recognized him. But Maneck’s failure to identify them had left them utterly hurt. What they and Dina do not come to know is that it is for them that he commits suicide. Unable to stand life anymore, which in any case has taken away a lot from him, Maneck chooses death. A family of four people collapses under the bull-dozing assault of inhuman politics of the state…innocent lives are lost, meaningful relationships are killed. The tragic epic ends intensifying your feeling that you belong to an essentially existentialist world devoid of any meanings. But believe me, that does not leave you depressed. You find in Maneck Kohlah a fellow-sufferer…the very feeling that you are not the only one is highly pleasurable. You see yourself dying with Maneck…but the very experience teaches you to take life by its horns. The tears that run down your cheek purge you many suppressed emotions that bog you down. The last pages of the novel are cathartic in that sense…redeeming you while showing you the darkest of realities.

The Most Meanderingly Long Sunday Morning: My Monotonous Rendezvous with Jodha-Akbar

Is there nothing to talk about the contemporary that Bollywood so often ventures into raising the ghosts of the past? That’s what a regular Hindi film fan would think. No, the filmmakers do have their reasons. While politicians are hell-bent on transforming India into a Hindu-state, mindlessly looking through the existence of numerous other religions, Ashutosh Gowarikar in an attempt to eulogize India’s secularism selects a historical fiction (or should I say a fictional history) by Haider Ali, celebrating the love of a Hindu Princess and a Muslim Samrat. Again, with a growing overseas market, Hindi films while becoming sleek and smart, more often than not resort to the age-old concept of the exotic Oriental that still sells in the West, in spite of globalization and the revolution in Information Technology. Gowarikar had immense scope of featuring a glam-narrative embellished with epical warfare, bejewelled beauties, and palace alleys. But to keep you seated what is most important is a good screenplay. Gowarikar spent so much time on costumes and Troy-type warfare that he failed to capture human emotions that generally hold together pieces of a narrative and hold back the audience.

But alas! With Aishwarya Rai in the lead role, it would be too much to ask for real human emotions. For, she with her synthetic expressions of grief and concocted smiles does not seem to have evolved much from her Devdas days when all possible emotions she displayed were highly stylized. Sad, that with the conscientious Bachchans as in-laws, she has still not learnt the rules of acting. And Hrithik Roshan…! Well, the macho-hero is seductively well-equipped to create dhoom, but he still has “miles to go” before he can even consider portraying a historical figure. Gowarikar must have thought that if Brad Pitt can carry Achilles off so well, why not our Hrithik? Unfortunately, he must have forgotten that the Greek heroes, as the legends represent them, do have physical resemblance with Pitt…but as far as my knowledge goes Akbar barely has anything to do with our well-chiselled Hrithik Roshan. Let’s not deduct marks, however. If you wish to put your country’s history in saleable packets (remember that the motto of the present generation is “Sell yourself…the means could be just anything”…almost sounds Machiavellian), then there is no harm. The final motive is not to make good cinema, but to earn dollars for the industry.

The actors do not matter as long as a good screenplay supports them. But Jodha Akbar is an interminably long journey (nothing metaphorical or meaningful about it…it gives you a feeling of wasting your time in a train that drags through a hot desert) drawing several yawns from the audience you suffers every moment of it. A. R. Rahman’s music occasionally gives respite, but the choreography does not appeal. I was in for a Sunday morning show…and had never realized before that Sundays could be that tiresome. When the film finally and thankfully ended, the morning had died into the blazing afternoon; I was as drowsy as a drooping flower. The film had robbed me of all my spirits, and when it actually ended, I discovered to my shock that I could not piece together the narrative in my mind. It wasn’t complicated, though. It was too much for the brain to register anything. The film is supposedly founded on the love story of Jodha-Akbar which was still unsung in the popular narratives… Gowarikar in a deadly urge to make an exhibition of his foolhardiness fell for a story which hardly interested any of his predecessors. He should have understood that if the love story of Jodha-Akbar had been so remarkably interesting, then, Bollywood hungry for good stories would have made several cinematic versions of the same several times. Poor Gowarikar! Hopefully others would learn from his mistakes and would not repeat the same.

My Everyday Tryst with the Rote: The Story of the Winner of Memorize-And-Throw-A-Name Contest

I still curse the moment when I had shared with this guy the fact that I was a film-freak. I hardly knew that I would have to bang my head against the wall for having declared this small obsession of mine. Just listen to the story and tell me whether you have had to deal with such a whitlow of a person who goes to the extent of maligning your otherwise healthy love for innocently simple Hindi movies! Since the day he discovered or rather I unfortunately let him discover my fascination for films, he has been bugging me to death by throwing apparently unpronounceable and perhaps even more difficult to spell out names of European directors who have hardly appealed to my sensibilities. Have you watched B—, or have you watched G—? (I spare you of the full names, for I’m not sure how to spell those). This guy who joined as my colleague is actually 11 years older than me, and yet my junior. Initially, when he used to throw such names with confidence, I used to feel visibly embarrassed, for my knowledge of films is seriously confined to our very own good old masala packages churned out from the Mumbai industry. However, when my irritation had gone to the extent of riveting my brains out, I sat down to think. If he was intellectually so high-class, why is it that he is junior to me in service in spite of his old-banyan-tree age? There has to be some “ghotala” (do not ask me to translate this term, for the sake of not losing out on the flavour of pure bitching) somewhere. I soon discovered through tests and trials (obviously of the subtle and intelligent kind), that this guy calls a film “good” or a director “worth watching” for the world thinks so. He scarcely has the brains to decide for himself which is which. My seriously deflated knowledge of films (based on what a Yash Chopra or a Karan Johar lovingly gifted us), seems quite inflated in volume when compared to his. Then, there was one more self-realization…almost like undergoing the self-anagnorisis that it was a “hamartia” on my part to have felt embarrassed at my ignorance of pardes-bred erudite directors! Hey, why should I feel embarrassed? Our films are in no way inferior to their films…and believe me, at the expense of sounding a bit erudite, let me tell you that our films are in their own way super postmodern narratives with layers of meanings, each meaning slipping out as you watch them for the second time, and thereafter! If that pleases the pseudo-intellectuals! But not that guy of my college…who still goes on raising my blood-pressure by throwing around worth-knowing names…when would he understand my several “No, no” nods? This tryst has now become a part of my college routine! Now, would you blame me for finding men mostly irritable and therefore avoidable? There are more stories to tell…just wait for the justification!!!

Why Arden?

Just like the Duke in Shakespeare's As You Like It, I too would like to retire to the poetic world of Arden and leave behind everything that bothers me. Such an Arden can only exist in dreams, in whimsical fantasies...and in the virtual cyber space...and hence my entry into the blogging world...to shake off all woes and bindings...and to be myself.