Tribute to Narayan Debnath

Like any other 'Papa's princess', I was never critical of my Dad's doings. My Baba was the best teacher, singer, story-teller, actor and an incredible orator who could speak a dozen languages fluently. And I guess people who knew him would agree to these qualities of him. We did have our differences, and I would be momentarily annoyed with him on everything he did ( or didn't) while throwing a tantrum myself; but we would patch up and go back being each other's favourite equally quickly. 

One thing, however, I took a really really long time to forgive him for, was donating my favourite series of comics.

To give you a little background, my parents, both teachers in Central government run schools, were posted in Little Andaman. Life was easy and tranquil in the islands. Neighbours were only family we had, as the rest of every person's extended family remained in the 'mainland'. We kids grew up as part of one big family where everyone took care of each other. 

My Baba as well as all elders in the colony made sure our generation learnt well about our culture and traditions, songs and cuisines, authors, poets, and freedom fighters alongwith world culture and world leaders. They created a mini India for us in that remotest part of country.

So, on my 8th birthday, I get a surprise gift of the entire set (36 books) of 'Nonte fonte' comics by Narayan Debnath; which must have been quite a feat, because books, specially for leisure reading were to be procured from Kolkata through a painstakingly long process that could take anywhere from a month to a quarter of an year. 

A bookaholic already, I was beside myself... Yes, my Baba was definitely the best. No other child in the entire colony had 36 shiny, colourful, deliciously funny comics books to herself. It took me less than three days to finish reading them all (the usual way; smuggling them under textbooks in school, reading them under bedsheet, sometimes under the bed after declaring loudly that I'm going out to play). I would smell the books, re-read them and also try to enact the characters. The wonder of finding characters in a comics who thought like me and made similar experiments that brought similar troubles to them as to me was unmatched. Over the years, there were many additions to my tiny library, but that particular set remained my favourite. 

Four years later, my parents got transferred to the North Andaman Islands. One day, upon returning from home, I couldn't find the comics books. Baba had donated almost all my books that I had "outgrown"!

I was absolutely heartbroken. I remember being so angry with him that I even refused to accompany him to the only sweet meat shop in the island... declining his peace offerings: hot rasgullas. 

Over the years, like any other Bengali child of my generation, I collected all series of comics by Narayan Debnath, and I still read them to my kids who are yet to be fluent in reading Bangla; but still my heart aches when I think of my first series. The memories associated with being introduced to the wonder-world of a master storyteller and then building my own world around those characters were so marvellous!

Today, Narayan Debnath breathed his last. He leaves behind many readers like me, whose childhood was made colourful through his comics. Rest in peace, smile-maker!

Of mangoes and murabbas

After decades, my mom is back making aamer aachar, mango pickles. Mostly because we are in a city famous for the king of fruits. The taste of Jhal aachar (the spicy one), tel aam (weathered mango cubes immersed in mustard oil), or the most favourite one: Gud aam (a hot and sweet variety signature style of Bengali households) bring back memories of a distant place and a magical childhood.

Growing up in the 80s, in a place where you considered your neighbours as relatives, and where the television did not reach till late 80s, mango pickles were more than just what they were. They bonded people, mostly kids.

My parents were posted in Hutbay, Little Andaman, when I was a kid. On rare occasions, when someone's grandparents visited the islands from 'Mainland', the kids' gang would eagerly wait to visit the privileged house and see if they brought any aam Murabba or gud aam with them. Our neighbour and family friend Pratima Sahu kakima's mother made heavenly murabba which she carried while going back from summer vacations. Thanks to her daughters and me, those golden pieces of bliss never lasted over a month. If and when I had lunch at their place, I would wait for kakima to finish her lunch after she had fed all others. Then it was murabba and chat time for both of us. That is what leisure was like. I would keep licking the golden sugary syrup and munching on the sweet mango bites while she told me things about her childhood, her family back in mainland, things that a young me sometimes didn't understand, things her daughters were too young to be interested in.

Gud aam that came from my mom's kitchen and that of Nanuma, another aunt in the colony were unmatched. Nanuma's house was an attraction for us for many other tidbits too. Those days, playing in the ground in evenings, any house could be our place for a quick bite and Nanuma's house was a treasure trove of goodies.

The jhal achaar was for teenagers, to sneak out in lazy afternoons with some aachar in whatever leaf was handy: banana or guava and sit on branches of trees (my friend Jyotsna Pandey had a few guava trees with branches hanging low) and chat about nothing in general, while taking the spicy gravy on fingertips and licking noisily.

These days, post lunch, my mother and I are back chatting over some gud aam and the kids just sit somewhere, quiet, only sound you can hear is them smacking their lips. Sometimes, even half an hour later, you'll see the little one still sucking on what was once the hard outer shell of the seed. Her reply, when she's asked to spit it out, is invariably, "Darao, arektu gud aachhe". ( There's still some juice left)

Keeping a promise

Though I would have liked it more than anything, I was not there at home, to help my toddler get ready on his first day at school. I was not there to click his photographs after he wore his crisp new uniform first time ever or did not drive him to school. In spite, I was on the other side of the picture... I was waiting for him at the school. Which is, let me confess, not half as much fun. However, being a teacher, I could not have missed school on the first day of the new session; there were a room full of kids waiting for me.
When my friends fretted over their kids on their first day in school, I would always think they were going overboard with their emotions. Now I know. And now, I correct myself. Fretting over a child's little glories form a big chunk of a mother's birthright. As I got reports from my colleagues about my son's first day (howling around and utterly inconsolable), I started looking at the school from my son's point of view. Suddenly, I was Alice, changed into a tiny being and the school, a monstrous entity with a gang of crying toddlers and unfamiliar faces. My heart skipped a beat and a bunch of butterflies fluttered in my stomach. I started hating education, the system, the discipline, the fresh smelling books, the new set of matching water bottle and lunch-box, the uniform and everything else. I just wanted to hug my child, wipe his tears and tell him "Let's go home".
But of course, I could not do any of these. I kept worrying from a distance, waiting for reports that he'd settled down. It was a new beginning for both of us. He came to terms with it fast enough... I am still trying. Soon, he'll make friends and will get used to school. He'll also get used to being on his own and staying away from me. And that, precisely, is what I'm afraid of.
My greatest fear is being left alone. And this nightmare has been true in many occasions,  being a lone child, Dad passing away before I could finish college, staying in hostels, being married to an army man: my "holiday hubby". So, when I held my little bundle of joy first time ever in my arms, my thoughts were, "From now on, I will never be alone."
Seeing my son go to school made me realise that I won't be able to hold on to my son's companionship for long. I have to let go...for he will have his own dreams to follow. I promise, I will let him do that. I promised to let him grow on his own and learn on his own. I had to put him to the grind of school, but I will not grind him for grades and results. Will I be able to do that? Will I be able to guide my little one to the right track without putting pressure? He is already comfortable with the new beginning .... I am nervous and still trying....

An enchanted evening

Tagore’s versatility and the universal appeal of his works are not confined to any one community. The uniqueness of his songs, like that of the poems of Wordsworth and Browne is the fact that they can uplift your mood; anytime, anywhere. They were geniuses who had seen life from so close and felt the bonding with Almighty with such intensity that their words infuse hope today, even in the toughest of situations. They rose like the phoenix from the ashes of their personal defeats and pains to pen down lines of unmitigated strength. Wordsworth’s lines— “To me alone there came a thought of grief: \ A timely utterance gave that thought relief,\ And I again am strong:…” and those from Tagore’s, “Amar e dhoop na porale/ Gondho kichhui nahin dhale” (Until you burn my incense, Lord! I cannot give the fragrance) were written when they were going through bad patches in life. Read the lines, get the essence, and our sorrows fade in the sunshine of our strengths.

Tagore’s poems and songs have always been a constant companion for his readers in their moments of happiness, triumph, togetherness, separations and grief. A collection of a few pearls from the Kaviguru’s collection was presented during concluding ceremony of Tagore's 150th birth anniversary celebrations: an event organised by Nikhil Bharat Bango Sahitya Sammelan, Nagpur Chapter. The programme was held at Scientific Society Hall at Laxminagar. Singer Agnibha Bandyopadhyay meticulously chose songs so that the bouquet he created was wholesome. Bandyopadhyay’s research (he is an Associate Professor at Rabindra Bharati Vishwavidyalaya) and years of familiarity in recital of Tagore’s songs was evident as he presented some of Tagore’s rare compositions. His rendition touched every heart, of even those who did not understand the language. Each song emerged from the depth of Bandyopadhyay’s knowledge of Tagore literature mixed with his years of riyaaz in classical music, and from his obvious love for what he was doing.

Among his accompanying artists were some world-renowned names like Sheetal Ganguli (on Madira) and Shubhobroto Ghatak (on keyboard), who is better known as Shonku Ghatak.

Anshubho Bandyopadhyay created magic on tabla and Chiranjeev Choudhuri ably accompanied in guitar.

The enchanted journey through Tagore’s songs took a magical turn with Balmiki Pratibha, the dance drama by Tagore that was staged by Surabhi Kala Kendra, Kolkata. The beautiful performance by the artists of the Surabhi Kala Kendra was choreographed and directed by Shri Sudhir Das. Valmiki Pratibha, meaning, the ‘genius of Valmiki’ was composed by Tagore for an entertainment purpose; for a family gathering. Tagore kept the overall mood of the drama happy and kept elements of comedy for the delight of children of the family. The plot is based on the story of Ratnakar, the chief of dacoits, being moved to pity and having a change of heart after witnessing the grief of one of a pair of cranes whose mate was killed by a hunter. Ratnakar was so moved that he broke into a lament in Sanskit, the Devvani (language of Gods) unbeknownst to him so far. Later, Ratnakar became Valmiki and composed his Ramayana in Sanskrit.

Members of Surabhi Kala Kendra portrayed every character flawlessly. Sudhir Das fused bharatnatyam, kathak, Rabindra Nritya and a bit of Puruliya chhau deftly and created a choreograph that was perfect and captivating. He played the central character of Ratnakar. Painstakingly done stage sets, costumes and makeup that were clearly works of genius, left an everlasting impact in the minds of Nagpurkars.

(See more photographs by ace photoghapher Sanjib Ganguly on FB)

Prelude to review of Tagore Birth anniversary celebrations

My Saturday (the 21^st of May) didn’t take off well. But it did end grandly, just the way I’d love a Saturday to bring curtains down on a hectic week (yeah yeah, my office works six days a week). A friend of mine, very generously gave me two passes to a Bengali cultural event that marked the culminations of Rabindranath Tagore’s 150^th birth anniversary celebrations.

If and when there is a rendition of Tagore songs, my mother is not likely to miss an attendance. So I took her, with my 10-month-old son in tow to the recital of Tagore’s songs by Mr Agnibha Bandyopadhyay, from Rabindra Bharati University in Kolkata followed by presentation of dance drama, “Valmiki Pratibha” . The programme, as expected, was audio-visual treat.

The evening was a personal milestone as it was my son’s first cultural evening. And did he enjoy! He is familiar with Rabindra Sangeet (many of them are his lullabies); he was amazed to listen to the same songs with accompaniment of musical instruments. So much so, he tried to ‘sing’ (at top of his voice) with Mr Banyopadhyay and kept clapping at his own masterful rendition.

The dance drama, “Valmiki Pratibha” was delightful; thanks to brilliant choreography and flawless acting. The programme needs to be mentioned separately, and not as a part of my musing. So keep a watch on my blog for a review of the event. Nagpurkars, spare yourself the trouble of digging out for Sunday’s newspapers; there ain’t nothing except one pathetic article in one local paper. Surprisingly there, the reporter has very successfully portrayed Tagore as a petty poet churning out ‘songs and poems of different taste’ (the way a roadside vadapav vendor may create different chutneys to keep his customers hooked)!

The Generation Z

I felt a little stupid walking into a quasiexpensive salon braving an outside temperature of 42^oC (107.6^o F) in Nagpur’s infamous summer. The roads were deserted, as one would expect, in the middle of the day. However, I could not postpone my visit—overt growth of facial hair had started restricting my social life. So I walked in, almost stealthily, to the comfortably air-conditioned salon expecting to see a bunch of sleepy-eyed people giving me the why-is-this-dame-here-at-this-ungodly-hour look.

Instead, I was happily surprised to see a couple of slaves-to-beauty-consciousness clients ensconced in the chairs and a mild buzz of activity around them. I was greeted with a big smile from the pretty receptionist—how much of this smile was for my obvious need for threading and how much of it was at the thought of emptying my purse remains debatable. The next surprise was bigger, literally. The girl who emerged from behind a door was tall with long, never-ending legs clad in a pair of body-hugging, designer jeans. She was 19 something and had that devil may care attitude typical of girls her age. She had a face angelic and impudent at the same time. Tribal style bracelets adorned her not-so-delicate wrist, a diamond nosering reflected some light and more attitude, many diamonds that decorated her ear-lobes spied about her background. I was definitely not expecting a she-could-have-been-a-model to do my eye-brows! My astonishment must have been evident (and not new to her) because she gave me a patronizing look and asked me to take a chair.

The way her hands moved swiftly, surely and she rid me of my facial hair without making me reach for wads of tissues—all in less than five minutes, gave me a feeling that she belonged to the rare group of people who are highly efficient and perfect in whatever they decide to do. I felt like asking her what she was doing in a salon. Why a prospective supermodel would chose a profession that included cleaning smelly toes of people is way beyond my understanding.

But then again, I was meeting the generation Z. They know their minds, they have the courage to follow their hearts, they know no work is undignified. The girl, who in all possibilities might never have poured herself a glass of water, was playing Abigail to clients. As a mom, I was disturbed by the thought of my son following his heart to someplace similar to. But hey, will I not be proud of him, at his courage, even secretly?

A volly of follies

I will remember last Tuesday for a long time. Two reasons; two firsts of my life: 1) witnessing an air-show live and 2) listening to the worst ever commentary so far.

I loved the air-show. Though I was later enlightened on my ignorance (seems that the show was not as good as that in previous years), I enjoyed the entire process of getting ready early, being transported to the venue... the works.

The venue wore a festive look with thousands of eager-looking school kids milling around and women and children in their Sunday bests. My eyes took in a lot of eye candies .... gangs of handsome men in uniform; my heart sang with the adrenaline-pumping songs playing in the background.

The commentary of the event began with usual greetings; without any hints whatsoever towards the impending disaster called anchoring. As the fighter planes taxied away and began with their air combat maneuvers, the commentary got intense. The person deviated grossly from the script (if there were any) and started gibbering away to fill in the gaps between maneuvers. I need to give one example to make you understand the predicament of listeners... "Nagpur people are such good sentries because they eat santras (oranges)" followed by giggles; primarily because no one else thought that funny.

Another one: "We have more than six people maintaining one flying beauty. So friends, who said only Draupadi of Mahabharata had five husbands?"

Of course, my friends and I agreed on the commentator's fortitude in making a casual comment on an epic character sitting among thousands of people in a city that houses RSS headquarters.

The commentary went on for over an hour. So while my eyes feasted on colours, men and beautiful machines; my ears ached for a respite. So friends, next time when you are planning to spoil someone's show in the guise of trying to be helpful, let me know...!