I did not know Rahul till he was shot dead on a Mumbai bus yesterday morning. Everyday, hundreds of people are shot dead in many parts of the world; there is nothing unusual about it, especially for those in our profession who deal with such “stories” day in and day out. But Rahul’s death was not only untimely but also uncalled for.
Last evening, a debate started at our desk whether Rahul Raj — a youth from Patna seeking job in Mumbai — should have been killed by trigger-happy men in khaki. Rahul was not a terrorist, neither he had a criminal past. Yet, the policemen showed him no mercy, as apparently he did not relent to the surrender orders by the men in uniform. His only fault was firing about six rounds from a country-made pistol injuring one on the Mumbai bus on Diwali-eve. It’s nothing serious for .303-toting policemen for being provoked, but their logic to open fire on an employed youth was funnier: Rahul threatened to kill Raj Thackeray.
The basic question is why the policemen did not show restraint. Was Rahul’s crime was more harmful than that of Thackeray’s? While Thackeray was given foolproof security round the clock even after taking the hub of financial activities to ransom for days and unleashing terror on people from Hindi heartland, could not Rahul ask for a bit of humanity? Probably not. First, he did not speak Marathi. Second, he tried his hands on some job in Mumbai apparently kept reserved for people willing to rebuild Maharashtra anew.
When some of us still think it was fully justified to kill an unemployed youth — who had been pushed to that end when all hopes for survival with a Patna tag in Mumbai were thin — on a bus for brandishing gun power, why can’t the police encounter high-profile terrorists jailed in Delhi or Srinagar or Guwahati? Why do we have to see our foreign minister handing over a dreaded terrorist —who had conspired and killed thousands of women and children — for safe release of 100-odd air passengers? Will the terrorists and politicians call the shots and youths hoping to get a job would be killed in acts of cowardice? This is India, a secular, multilingual, multicultural country. Jai Hind!
Tuesday 28 October 2008
Tuesday 21 October 2008
New age menace?
Mumbai or Mohali? Which one is most headline-grabbing on news channels and papers on October 21?
The day when Dhoni and his men posted an emphatic Test victory over the most powerful cricketing country, the financial capital of India has been doomed to linguistic and cultural chauvinism. How can one believe that a little-known political party takes the "maximum city" to maximum ransom only hours after the arrest of their leader? Has the time come again to witness the mad rush of Hindi-speaking people from towns of Maharashtra like that earlier this year?
What will happen to my numerous friends who make a living in Mumbai? They might not be taxi drivers or coolies at stations, they might have given the chauvinist Marathis a slip to escape their wrath because they are engaged in "soft" jobs; but aren’t they afraid of their survival? The reason is simple: they can’t speak Marathi like the native of Maharashtra. For their everyday work, most of the people from other states living in the cosmopolitan city on the Arabian Sea speak Hindi, as the language has become the national language in the past six decades. People would certainly disagree on whether Hindi should be regarded as the national language, but in a multi-lingual country like India, one needs to be proficient in the principal language of communication within the country. It is still debatable whether Hindi would get similar importance if the national capital is either in Mumbai or Chennai or Calcutta, the city which lost the capital tag in 1911 to Delhi. But no one would rewrite history at this point.
What we should remember is the spirit of being Indian. That should unite us at a time of crisis, especially the present one when the sensex has crashed over 50 per cent in 10 months; particularly when the country has been shockingly expecting for another bomb to rip apart a city or a town; specifically when secessionist movement has spread its tentacles from Kashmir to Darjeeling. Didn’t we feel proud seeing a 35-year-old Marathi is congratulated by his team leader from Hindi heartland after scoring 12,000 Test runs? Why people from all parts of India are raising a toast for the victory against Australia scripted by a young leg-spinner from Haryana, another Hindi-speaking state, in his debut Test? I think the most chauvinist supporter of a Marathi leader is also in a happy state of mind on a morning when India won the Test by 320 runs — a feat not achieved till date. Does he count how many Marathi-speaking player is there in the team? Nobody counts that.
It’s a collective effort that unites India — be it on the pitch of Mohali, be it on the streets of Mumbai. We should aim that keeping our faith in humanity.
The day when Dhoni and his men posted an emphatic Test victory over the most powerful cricketing country, the financial capital of India has been doomed to linguistic and cultural chauvinism. How can one believe that a little-known political party takes the "maximum city" to maximum ransom only hours after the arrest of their leader? Has the time come again to witness the mad rush of Hindi-speaking people from towns of Maharashtra like that earlier this year?
What will happen to my numerous friends who make a living in Mumbai? They might not be taxi drivers or coolies at stations, they might have given the chauvinist Marathis a slip to escape their wrath because they are engaged in "soft" jobs; but aren’t they afraid of their survival? The reason is simple: they can’t speak Marathi like the native of Maharashtra. For their everyday work, most of the people from other states living in the cosmopolitan city on the Arabian Sea speak Hindi, as the language has become the national language in the past six decades. People would certainly disagree on whether Hindi should be regarded as the national language, but in a multi-lingual country like India, one needs to be proficient in the principal language of communication within the country. It is still debatable whether Hindi would get similar importance if the national capital is either in Mumbai or Chennai or Calcutta, the city which lost the capital tag in 1911 to Delhi. But no one would rewrite history at this point.
What we should remember is the spirit of being Indian. That should unite us at a time of crisis, especially the present one when the sensex has crashed over 50 per cent in 10 months; particularly when the country has been shockingly expecting for another bomb to rip apart a city or a town; specifically when secessionist movement has spread its tentacles from Kashmir to Darjeeling. Didn’t we feel proud seeing a 35-year-old Marathi is congratulated by his team leader from Hindi heartland after scoring 12,000 Test runs? Why people from all parts of India are raising a toast for the victory against Australia scripted by a young leg-spinner from Haryana, another Hindi-speaking state, in his debut Test? I think the most chauvinist supporter of a Marathi leader is also in a happy state of mind on a morning when India won the Test by 320 runs — a feat not achieved till date. Does he count how many Marathi-speaking player is there in the team? Nobody counts that.
It’s a collective effort that unites India — be it on the pitch of Mohali, be it on the streets of Mumbai. We should aim that keeping our faith in humanity.
Monday 13 October 2008
Battle for better Ganga
Samiran da’s battle is not for himself, but for the lifeline of a bustling city. The 47-year-old has never grabbed newspaper headlines, but is frightened of reporters. One may wonder when he is on a mission to save the Ganga in Calcutta, why should he be so afraid of newspersons, especially when the latter always support the job he has been doing for the past three years with only three persons.
I met Samiran da on the evening of Dashami (October 9) at Babughat, one of the few ghats on the Ganga where small idols of long tradition are immersed with profound devotion, unlike the idols of big clubs, amid tears. The job of Samiran da and his team was simple. Ask the Puja organisers to separate flowers from the idols so that the Ganga is not polluted and also clean the river of plastic/polythene items. I also thought that there is nothing troublesome in executing the order of the Calcutta Municipal Corporation since a posse of policemen was standing guard with one sub-inspector leading them. Moreover, Calcuttans are known to be law-abiding citizens, particularly on Durga Puja days.
I was proven wrong in five minutes. Only a few Puja organisers were ready to accept that they were committing less sin in dumping flowers a few metres away from the holy river; only a couple of them could have been resisted from throwing polythene bags full of Puja paraphernalia into the middle of the river; only one or two of them controlled themselves from abusing Samiran da and his team in front of the idols they probably worshipped with fullest devotion for four days!
But this year is better, he says with a smile. “Last year, i was slapped and thrashed to the ground before the police rescued me,” Samiran da says, with the smile still on his lips. The incident did not deter him, but his determination was so strong this year that he entered into a verbal duel with a middle-aged lady and later a tall man — not at all gentle — to prevent them from throwing flowers packed in a Westside packet into the river — the source of drinking water for millions. “But i can’t press for more, as it would seem i am hurting their religious sentiment. Who wants a riot on Dashami?” he says.
What struck me more that day were the underprivileged children collecting decorative items and parts of weapons that the idols had. The children also came forward and asked the Puja organisers not to throw the stuff into the river. But the city elders and veterans of Durga Puja were hardly in a mood to listen to the pleas of the kids who are always looked down upon.
Before i made a retreat that evening, i told Samiran da not to be scared by reporters, as they also portray his good work in black and white.
©Supratim Pal
I met Samiran da on the evening of Dashami (October 9) at Babughat, one of the few ghats on the Ganga where small idols of long tradition are immersed with profound devotion, unlike the idols of big clubs, amid tears. The job of Samiran da and his team was simple. Ask the Puja organisers to separate flowers from the idols so that the Ganga is not polluted and also clean the river of plastic/polythene items. I also thought that there is nothing troublesome in executing the order of the Calcutta Municipal Corporation since a posse of policemen was standing guard with one sub-inspector leading them. Moreover, Calcuttans are known to be law-abiding citizens, particularly on Durga Puja days.
I was proven wrong in five minutes. Only a few Puja organisers were ready to accept that they were committing less sin in dumping flowers a few metres away from the holy river; only a couple of them could have been resisted from throwing polythene bags full of Puja paraphernalia into the middle of the river; only one or two of them controlled themselves from abusing Samiran da and his team in front of the idols they probably worshipped with fullest devotion for four days!
But this year is better, he says with a smile. “Last year, i was slapped and thrashed to the ground before the police rescued me,” Samiran da says, with the smile still on his lips. The incident did not deter him, but his determination was so strong this year that he entered into a verbal duel with a middle-aged lady and later a tall man — not at all gentle — to prevent them from throwing flowers packed in a Westside packet into the river — the source of drinking water for millions. “But i can’t press for more, as it would seem i am hurting their religious sentiment. Who wants a riot on Dashami?” he says.
What struck me more that day were the underprivileged children collecting decorative items and parts of weapons that the idols had. The children also came forward and asked the Puja organisers not to throw the stuff into the river. But the city elders and veterans of Durga Puja were hardly in a mood to listen to the pleas of the kids who are always looked down upon.
Before i made a retreat that evening, i told Samiran da not to be scared by reporters, as they also portray his good work in black and white.
©Supratim Pal
Wednesday 8 October 2008
Struggle & comfort
They were a group of six waiting for Puja organisers to approach them at Sealdah station on the eve of the five-day annual extravaganza. Calcutta, for them, is a dream destination.
This year, the journey to Calcutta has been doubly important for them, as their homes were washed away by a man-made flood in their East Midnapore village near Kanthi (Contai). The man-made flood — as water was suddenly released from a dam that wiped out several villages from the earth — struck them twice, once in late June and another in August. They tried to build new homes in high places, but their efforts were all in vain. Their primary source of livelihood — agriculture — was no longer sustainable with cultivable land was lost in the flood. So were the foodgrain stored in granaries.
In the weeks before Puja when we were busy swiping cards at swanky malls, they spent the nights in tents put up by voluntary organisations and NGOs. “The government hardly took care of us. Had there not been the missions, we would die of hunger,” says Sadhan, with tears almost rolling down the cheeks. What could you tell them on that Saturday afternoon (October 4) — the last weekend for Puja shopping? When three youngsters sporting Reebok T-shirts and Nike sneakers approached them to hire for the five days, the villagers told the city brags that they can’t do it less than Rs 12,000. Obviously, the youth — probably representing a club — turned down the demand of the group of six — who had only arrived that Mahapanchami morning from Kanthi. They could not afford tickets to sit inside the bus, so they took the painstaking six-hour journey from their village to the City of Joy travelling rooftop amid drizzling. Some sheets of polythene could only save them, their belongings —which are in fact their seasonal source of income —from the smart shower.
Well, i do not organise a Puja and could not help the hapless six. But talking to them when it was raining outside Sealdah station was a revelation to me: we crib about our work even sitting in the comfort of AC; we remain eternally dissatisfied with our CTC; we don’t like the design of our shirts and trousers even at Pantaloons. What do we want? We have homes that were not obliterated from the city; we have jobs that are not threatened during the rains every year; we have chelo kebabs waiting for us that is not as simple as khichdi at relief camps ... we have everything they don’t have. Is it the Marxist concept of “haves” and “have nots”? Probably yes.
Still they manage to make us happy with the unique rhythm they create with dhaaks. They are the dhaakis who never come to the fore. How many times have we asked the name of a dhaaki at a Puja pandal? We note down the name of the sculptor or the interior decorator or the person in charge of theme-based illumination outside the pandals. We easily forget them after Dashami and they again make their return journey back home, probably to remote villages in Kanthi or Murshidabad or Burdwan even when we know a Durga Puja would remain incomplete without them!
©Supratim Pal
Wednesday 1 October 2008
Her Story
It’s a story of a young Muslim woman married to a Hindu after years of spending days together. The story began about a decade ago when the teenager fell in love with the boy of an affluent Hindu family of Calcutta. She, being only about 17/18, could not but be excited about her new-found love; little did she know then that it was the beginning of a long battle.
His family was so-called “progressive”, as she discovered after several visits to their Baguiati home. Her family, as Indian society sometime says, is rather “conservative”, as her parents were against the relationship since its inception. During the years of courtship, she never faced any problem from her boyfriend’s family. In fact, her eventual mother-in-law supported them in the troubled years when she almost waged a war against her family staying on the northern fringes of the City of Joy.
About four years ago, the young woman — an MSc in anthropology — tied the knot with the man of her life — a brilliant student from one of the prestigious IITs of the country. Soon after marriage, she was asked by her in-laws to change the religion of her birth. Obviously, the rebel in her did not budge. She left the “progressive” home of her in-laws to pursue BEd in Jadavpur University — seat of the 20th century Renaissance in Bengal.
There began another battle — now not against families, but society at large. First, the Muslim woman was literally thrown out of the hostel by the same group of girls who talk feminism, bring out magazines for women’s rights and take out rallies even for tortured housewives! With a suitcase and mattress, she knocked the door of one of the paying guest owners in the area, a posh south Calcutta address. “Sorry, we don’t allow Muslim woman to stay with us,” came the reply from the house-owner, rather owners, as the number was many.
We live in a free democratic secular society — of which Calcutta and Jadavpur University are known to be its citadels!
At last she — her husband was then away posted in a company outside Bengal — cleared her one-year BEd course from one of her generous friend’s houses. At present, she is in a West Midnapore railway town with her husband. The government school where she is now a teacher, is not that “progressive” like its Calcutta counterparts, but the school at least has not made her life “hell”.
Let Id brings joy to her family and the newcomer she is carrying now.
©Supratim Pal
His family was so-called “progressive”, as she discovered after several visits to their Baguiati home. Her family, as Indian society sometime says, is rather “conservative”, as her parents were against the relationship since its inception. During the years of courtship, she never faced any problem from her boyfriend’s family. In fact, her eventual mother-in-law supported them in the troubled years when she almost waged a war against her family staying on the northern fringes of the City of Joy.
About four years ago, the young woman — an MSc in anthropology — tied the knot with the man of her life — a brilliant student from one of the prestigious IITs of the country. Soon after marriage, she was asked by her in-laws to change the religion of her birth. Obviously, the rebel in her did not budge. She left the “progressive” home of her in-laws to pursue BEd in Jadavpur University — seat of the 20th century Renaissance in Bengal.
There began another battle — now not against families, but society at large. First, the Muslim woman was literally thrown out of the hostel by the same group of girls who talk feminism, bring out magazines for women’s rights and take out rallies even for tortured housewives! With a suitcase and mattress, she knocked the door of one of the paying guest owners in the area, a posh south Calcutta address. “Sorry, we don’t allow Muslim woman to stay with us,” came the reply from the house-owner, rather owners, as the number was many.
We live in a free democratic secular society — of which Calcutta and Jadavpur University are known to be its citadels!
At last she — her husband was then away posted in a company outside Bengal — cleared her one-year BEd course from one of her generous friend’s houses. At present, she is in a West Midnapore railway town with her husband. The government school where she is now a teacher, is not that “progressive” like its Calcutta counterparts, but the school at least has not made her life “hell”.
Let Id brings joy to her family and the newcomer she is carrying now.
©Supratim Pal
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