'Banned' Wagon

The country-wide smoking ban is nearly a month old. But no uprisings yet. Not even a candle-light protest vigil. Rights continue to get trampled in this world. Smokers are humans too. Humans with a different perspective: we will all die one day. Yes, you too, you non-smoking, non-guzzling, non-non-organic-food-hogging, non-lethargic fitness freak. We smokers just deal with it better.

Still, every time we feel the urge, we need to make our way down office buildings, adorned with paan stains in every corner, to the sun-soaked, rain-drenched roadside. That's what a smoke means these days: braving the weather, the stares of regressive men, and the traffic.

Even the Friday night tipple has to go without its accompanying smoke rings. How can a sane person drink without taking a drag from time to time? How can the interesting argument on the future of Indian cricket without the Big Three be carried on without cigarettes? What kind of one-dimensional character devised this form of cruelty? What's next? A ban on liquor? A clamp on adda? A prohibitionary order on a party?

For many of us, cigarettes are a friend. Yes, the friend demands its pound of flesh, but do you really think friendships are without give-and-take? A cigarette comforts us in grief, supports us in times of trouble, joins us in happier moments, relieves us when we are tense and anxious. It helps us overcome that awkward pause on conversation, strike up a conversation with that good-looking stranger...

Smoking helps us feel at one with the world. For however long we are in it.

Nostalgia Trip

This morning I listened to Mahishasurmardini after about 12 years. I heard it last in 1995, just before landing my first job in The Telegraph. Night shifts for five years thereafter ensured that I got out of the habit of getting up at 4 am to listen to Birendra Krishna Bhadra's baritone. And I got married to someone who was never really into Mahishasurmardini to begin with. So, even when I had eased into regular work hours following Riju's arrival, rising early on Mahalaya was never on the agenda for me.

It wasn't this year too. But, somehow last night I set the alarm for 4 am, instead of 6.30. And this morning, somehow I actually remembered why I set the alarm and plugged in the headset.

To me, Mahishasurmardini is associated with travel. My father has always favoured travelling in autumn when the weather's great and you can escape the Calcutta crowds. Never one for pandal-hopping, I loved spending the Pujas away from the chaos. So, Mahalaya meant packing bags and airing woollens. It meant helping ma make luchi and alur dam for dinner on train. It meant buying toothpastes and splitting hairs on which clothes to take and which to leave behind. Mahalaya meant anticipation. It still does, but in a different way.

Growing up in central Calcutta, I've never had any para friends to spend the Pujas with. When we were younger, ma used to whisk us away to her parents' place on those rare vacations when we were not travelling. Spending the holidays with cousins was fun, but it stopped us — my brother and myself — from getting to know any children in our locality. In high school and college, when, like my cousins, I became busy with studies, Puja evenings would be spent on our verandah, gazing at the gay parade of pandal-hoppers: families, lovers, children. And then, from 1995 onwards, I worked through the Pujas and cursed the crowd as I wearily made my way home well after midnight.

The picture didn't quite change after marriage, as both my husband and I continued to work on the four days. Then, as I began to forge tentative friendships with Dhiman's para friends, adda (with booze) sessions were planned on the Puja evenings. These proved a great success and are now a regular Puja feature. Something I wouldn't miss for the world. Travelling can wait till after Dashami. So, Mahalaya now means I need to stock up on munchies and alcohol. And plan.

Today, I listened to Mahishasurmardini with my son. It was his first time. And, wonder of wonders, he liked it. No. Come to think of it, it isn't really a wonder. Birendra Krishna Bhadra's evocative early-morning chants spell exactly the same thing for him as they do for millions of Bengalis and Calcuttans — anticipation.

I have discovered poetry. A friend needs to be credited for this. He read me a few of Sunil Ganguly's poems, and got me hooked, not only to Bengali, but to all kinds of verses.

Not that I was a complete newcomer to poetry. From my schooldays, I remember Eliot's Macavity (the Mystery Cat), Nissim Ezekiel's Night of the Scorpion, excerpts from Madhusudan Dutt's Meghnadbadh Kabya. In high school, I lapped up Tagore's "Shesher Kabita", a must for any poetry connoisseur. Tagore's translation of Donne was as memorable as the lyrical love story of Amit and Labanya. But what I liked, and memorised, especially was the last poem, "Kaaler jatrar dhwani shunitey ki pao..." In college, I switched loyalties to Premendra Mitra. His elegant prose I was acquainted with, but his poetry captured my heart. Briefly. The race to graduate honourably and get myself a job took precedence over the gentler form of literature.

After that, I could never find the time to read verses. It required a lot more patience, more time and space for introspection, which I did not have and could not afford. Then, after 13-odd years, poetry found me again.

Suddenly, I am reading poem after poem, buying anthologies, begging friends for that rare Pablo Neruda collection. Revelations follow revelations. Over the past three months, I have discovered that Sunil Ganguly's Neera poems are an exquisite ode to love, Shakti Chattopadhyay's "Jete pari..." tugs at your heartstrings, Sylvia Plath's quirky perspectives amaze you, while the intermingling of patriotism and passion in Pablo Neruda's verses fascinates you.

I confess. I have fallen in love again. With verse.

Thank you, friend.

Getting a child to read...
...as opposed to dragging him or her away from television.

Both Dhiman and I love to read. Books and magazines and newspapers and even brochures are strewn all over our home. We spend at least Rs 10,000 a year on books. But Riju's affinities still lie frustratingly with the television. And computer games. And remote-controlled cars.

Granted, he reads Tintin and newspapers. But I want him to devour Enchanted Woods, Famous Five, Adventurous Four, Jungle Book, Robinson Crusoe, Alice in Wonderland NOW. Why isn't he pouring over "Buro Angla", I wonder bitterly. Or, "Raj Kahini". But however much I advertise the cause for reading, my son still favours television shows. And I don't want to overdo this — it might turn him totally against reading.

The temptation to compare his childhood with our's is huge. We had read most Enid Blytons by his age, also some of the classics. Bengali books, too, were devoured at a great rate. But the comparison is unfair, really. The little television we had comprised mostly of once a week evening shows of Charlie Chaplin or Godzilla. Or, some years later, Johnny Soko and the Flying Robot and Diff'rent Strokes. Would we have read as much if we had the Cartoon Channel, or POGO or Nickelodeon vying for our attention? Probably not.

So what's the solution? Any suggestions?

Dear Mr Sandip Ray,

I am writing to you on behalf of all Satyajit Ray fans. After watching your latest film, Kailashey Kelenkari, I have a request to make. Please do not make any more Feluda movies. We love the stories your father wrote, especially those involving the sleuth and his cousin. So we cannot bear the vandalisation of these evergreen characters on celluloid. We cannot bear to see a pot-bellied and heavy-jowled Feluda, a pompous brat of a Topshe, and a silly Jatayu. It goes against our grain to accept a movie where Feluda's deduction abilities are largely left to the audience's imagination, where Jatayu is ridiculously excited about an ad shoot, where Topshey is so condescending towards Jatayu that one winces.

While we adore Sonar Kella and Joy Baba Felunath, we completely understand your father's decision not to make any more Feluda movies after Santosh Dutta's untimely death. Filling such a great void would always be difficult, and subsequent attempts by thespians such as Robi Ghosh, Anup Kumar, and Mohan Agashe proved that. Now, your experiments with Bibhu has touched the nadir of characterisation. Jatayu, as seen in SK and JBF, was a celebrity in his own right, not inferior to Felu or Topshe, nor a mere comic relief. That is how your father conceptualised him. But the Jatayu in your films, especially in Kailashey Kelenkari, is nothing more than a joker, a buffoon to be laughed at. That's a gross misreading of the character, Mr Ray (Junior).

Another instance is that of Topshe. Why is a 27-year-old man playing the role of a 15-year-old boy? A young-looking 21-year-old is still acceptable, but we refuse to accept the pretentious and pompous Parambrata as Topshe. He is not Topshe. Never.

We like Sabyasachi. We really do. We still remember the strapping young man of Tero Parbon who was such a change from the Abhisheks and Prosenjits. And he does fill Feluda's shoes quite nicely. Rather, he did. Sabyasachi no longer looks suitable to play Prodosh Mitter. Just take a look at any of illustrations your father made for his Feluda books and you will understand why. Feluda would never have a pot-belly, however small, or heavy jowls, like the ones Sabyasachi sported in Kailashey Kelenkari.

I will not even go into the stilted dialogues or the completely awry characterisation throughout the movie. If the three main draws of a Feluda film are such flops, the rest do not hold much attraction. Get real, Mr Ray (Junior), you are just not equipped to carry your father's legacy forward. It must be stressful trying to live up to your father's reputation as a film-maker, so just give it up. No one will miss it. I swear.

You must be earning enough from the copyrights of your father's books. Just put some of the money in a sound investment scheme and take voluntary retirement. Buy yourself a nice vacation in Darjeeling and throw away all those half-finished scripts into a deep gorge. Or into a fireplace. Leave Feluda alone. And Goopy-Bagha too. They deserve it.

Yours (really) sincerely...