A long period of inactivity has
lulled me into a deep and blissful ennui. I am becoming prone to these attacks
of utter idleness and a detachment from everything that can be considered as
work. For the moment, following the news on TV, the scams and the shenanigans
of the ruling class and their cohorts seem to be the most important thing in
life. I greedily devour these in large morsels like an awe-struck child
listening to fairy tales. I love to
listen to stories and the news channels provide me enough every day. But, I
seem to have an insatiable appetite for almost all genres of stories including
news – whether they are fact or fiction hardly matters to me. The only thing that matters is the degree of
ludicrousness – the more the merrier. The biggest scam recently is that of
defalcation of depositors’ money by a Chit Fund company. Every day either a depositor or an agent is
committing suicide, millions have lost their life savings. Platitudes and
promises are being mouthed, but what takes the cake is the installation of
shoe-shine machines in Writer’s Building. The timing is perfectly ludicrous.
This is the kind of plot that any of the magic realist would give an arm and a
leg for. Maybe someday I will attempt yarns on these lines, but not now. I can
barely manage to write about two thousand words, after which my interest wanes.
Alas!
Tagore wrote
that humankind is nurtured on stories, well, not exactly in those words. But on
this day- “pnochishey Boishak” - his birth
anniversary - I think it will be more apt to translate a passage from “Golpo” written by Tagore. Its
simplicity is delightful…
------------------------------
“Tell me a story” he demanded, the moment he
learnt to speak.
And grandma began “There was a prince,
a merchant’s son, a sheriff’s son…”
“Three times four is twelve” bellowed
the teacher.
But, the Demon’s roar was louder and
multiplications did not reach the boy’s ear.
The self-righteous locked up the boy
in a room and admonished, “Three times four is twelve! That’s the truth; the prince,
the merchant’s son and the sheriff’s son, they are untrue, so…”
But, the boy’s imagination by then
had sailed to distant lands, to addresses that one could not find on a map. ‘Three
times four is twelve’ doggedly followed, but unable to fathom the depths, floundered
in mid-sea.
The teacher thought that the boy was
just being naughty, nothing that a few strokes of the cane could not correct.
The teacher’s mien stunned grandma
into silence. But, this nuisance just wouldn’t go away, one left and another took
his place. Then the storyteller arrived and started narrating the episode of a
prince banished to the forest.
When the sharp-nailed-she-demon’s
nose was being hacked off, the righteous said,” there’s no proof of that in
history, but that three times four is twelve is beyond doubt.”
By then Hanuman had leapt sky-high,
while history failed to soar to that height. All through school and college
they tried to curb the boy’s imagination, but nothing could kill the thirst in
him that rang, “Tell me a story!”
Tagore
continues…
…From this we learn that it’s just
not children, even adults of all ages are nurtured on stories. Thus through the
ages, in every home, by word of mouth, through the written text, the vast
collection of stories that this world has accumulated adds up to the most
valuable asset of humankind…
…Thus, when two people meet, they ask
“What news? What next?” The story of human civilization, our history - has been
woven out of these “what next’s” (Tar por?).
-----------------------------------
“What news neighbour?” Gitanjali often asks when we pass
each other at the gate. “What news?” asks Gautam da on the phone or whenever we
meet. Some friends ask me “What’s new?”
instead.
There are
quite a few names in the G pages of all my telephone diaries and most have
retained their respective positions. This augurs well – it means that my relationship
with them has remained stable and all of them ask me the same question by way
of a salutation – “What news?”
So, my
obsession with surfing the news channels is not a compulsive disorder as some
would like to believe, it is my inquisitive mind asking “What news?” But, I
must admit that my interest in the ludicrous could be a valid cause for concern
to many of my well wishers.
Coming back
to Tagore, I wish to share with you a piece I wrote for the Gallerie magazine a
while ago…
“Rabindranath Tagore and his impact on Bengal and the world or how he continues
to inspire me can be explained as a narrative that implicates my being.
Right from the day I could follow
a tune, Tagore and his songs have remained with me. In fact, raised in a middle
class Brahmo family, I had an overdose of “Rabindra-Sangeet” to the exclusion
of all else – a rare variety of chauvinism had afflicted the so called elite of
Bengal into believing that everything else was base and tasteless. He was
therefore the only ‘culture’ that mattered. Soon, the single-channeled absoluteness
resulted in my disliking the sound of his songs (for no fault of his) – that
was my first run-in with Tagore: I was still in my early teens. What mattered
to me then was the Calcutta ‘B’ station of All India Radio that aired western
music and the occasional clandestine foray into Vividh Bharati and the world of popular Hindi songs –
considered an abomination in our insulated world of ‘Rabindrik’ culture.
It was much later when I was
exposed to the gamut of musical styles that Bengal’s culture comprised of – I
realised that there was much more than just Tagore. After all, there was life
before him. Having said that, I must hasten to add that, Tagore was a colossal
presence. The sheer volume of his creative output in all the disciplines that
he delved into is reason enough to justify our collective inferiority complex. However,
despite my early defiance I now stand corrected and more often than not, I
catch myself humming his songs.
Whatever may have been the reason
for the adulation he continues to receive, he was undoubtedly ‘the’ cultural
icon whose brilliance remains undimmed even to this day. Did this and the fact
that his dynamism was boundless, elevate him to the status of a super-human? A God?
This is where I come in again. A
second run-in with the idea of Tagore happened when I created a work titled “My
Prayer”, intended to question this idolisation. Having employed the popular to
investigate a popular icon, I received my share of brickbats, some of which
were particularly vicious and nasty. The people who worshipped him were very angry
indeed!
 |
| My prayer (2002), 36 X 65 inches, Acrylics, photographs, ply wood, sequines, etc. |
On the occasion of the
tercentenary birthday celebrations of Tagore, everyone seems to have gone on an
over-drive. The new political dispensation in West Bengal deemed it necessary
to further popularise Tagore, by playing his songs over public address systems at almost
every street crossing - to the accompaniment of blaring car horns and the
rattle of decrepit buses!
Along with the change that this
state has so resoundingly trumpeted, Tagore songs have become the staple for
starting and ending election speeches, political rallies and all other state, and
private functions. Tagore, I am sure would have found this amusing if he was around.
Finally, not being able to hear
myself think because of the blaring loudspeakers, I telephoned the local Police
Station to register a complaint. The phone rang at the other end with a caller
tune (to my disbelief!) of Tagore’s famous song:
“Jodi Tor Dak Shune Keu Na Ashye, tobe ekla cholo
rey…”
(“If they answer not to thy call,
walk alone…)
