Yet Another Open Letter!

Unlike this lady Shahana, who wrote an Open Letter to a Delhi Boy, I cannot dare to write on behalf of others. And this blog’s purpose is not to criticize this deeply disturbed lady (there are others doing the same job fabulously, for example: MadMomma, who I think has done her ‘community’s’ image a favour after the damage inflicted by the racist, Ms. Shahana) but her blogpost has divided the ‘www’ into a north and a south, and all this drama raging on blog-o-sphere has managed to topple my personal apple cart. But it is the apple I like to call: ‘Bengali born and bred in Delhi’ that has suffered the worst bruises.

To hell with the South Indians of the South and the North Indians of the North!

I’m a Bengali, born and brought up in the capital city by Bengali parents who’ve spent a greater part of their lives in this city and are currently in mourning (though they won’t admit it) for having to relocate to the motherland, Kolkata. I was born to a fair mother, a brownish father and voila: I look like Complan and I tan purple in summer. I was reared on a very suspect diet of all that was considered healthy in the north and the east and this beauteous mix contributed to a rather healthy (halthy as some well meaning Aunties call it) constitution which is still very much in evidence (the diet also impacted the nature of my appetite such that it leans towards voracious). I can give any South Indians a run for their money in terms of intelligence and I lag behind plenty of highly intelligent North Indians in the same department (OH THE HORROR!!!) And you know what, my Punjabi or UP-ite friends (of the fairer skin and svelte bodies) didn’t make fun of me. Or rag me. Or bully me. And to clarify, I may have a hand full and if I stretch it, maybe two handfuls of Bengali friends while the rest are ‘North Indians’ and a couple of the very best I know are south Indians (fortunately they are unlike Ms. Shahana’s ilk).

And thus I feel left out in this regional debate. I feel marginalized because I don’t come from the North-South extremes of the country (although Delhi is hardly extreme north). This brings me back to the issue of my private woes for not being considered Delhi-ite enough by these uninformed, narrow minded and ever defensive immigrants! What am I? An alien?

It also makes me wonder do other people, hailing from different regional backgrounds, who’ve grown up in Delhi or have constructed a life in Delhi not feel the same way about the city as I do, so they not develop some sort of affinity to the city? Do they not resent the fact that Delhi is characterized purely as a North Indian strong-hold (I admit there are more of them) and mis-characterized as a stronghold of North Indian miscreants?

I cannot write in defence of any Delhi Boy, some of them will have to do it for themselves if they so wish. But about Delhi girls she writes that they are obsessed with designer duds, weight, beauty and kowtow to their husband’s will. The worst part is, according to her (and I do feel resentful towards other bloggers writing for and against) I don’t even qualify to feel offence, since Delhi girls are obviously Punjabi! Oh, and, I like money, I like SUVs, I would love to be able to buy designer shoes (may never be able to fit in their clothes) and I consider Butter Chicken a staple.

Does that make us Bengalis, Kashmiris, Tamils, Keralites, Assamese, Gujaratis, Biharis, Maharashtrians etc societal glitches?

All this bile expunged for systems in the name of homogeneity (regional, cultural, linguistic etc) disturb me. Very much so.

But now I will have some boiled tea, curse Indians in general for not knowing how to brew tea and then forget about all this as I face another day at LSR. Despite Ms. Shahana’s views, LSR isn’t a figment of peoples’ imagination. Neither is St. Stephens Collge. We actually exist. We are very real. And no, our brothers aren’t homicidal and our parents aren’t suffering from brain damage.

Lastly, I would some day like to be able to re-write this blogpost using ‘we’ in place of a lot of the ‘I’s, but I’ll desisted for now for lack of proof!

Fellini and God

A decorative panel depicting 'Kali' at Durga Pujo Pandal, Mitali Club, Kankurgachi, Kolkata (2010)

God may not play dice but he enjoys a good round of Trivial Pursuit every now and again. 
Federico Fellini


I wanted to believe in the notion of God for a convenient period of time just so I could bandy around Federico Fellini's aforementioned quote. But that seemed too much of an aberration. Hence, instead of a Tweet or a Facebook update, I made a confession on Blogspot.

Too New To Be True:Drums at Durga Pujo!

This Pujo, we came across something new (new for us, this may actually be an old old thing for residents of Calcutta) that jerked us out of tourist-y complacency. The Durga Pujo Pandal at Salt Lake (one of the many Pujos there) not only had a fascinating marquee built to resemble Rabindranath Tagore's residence, but also had a drummer accompanying the 'dhak' players.

What Happens Beside the Ocean?

I must beg Ronan Keating’s pardon. I don’t feel small beside the ocean. I feel an immense sense of pride and exhilaration in being a creature who posses the ability to appreciate the emotion that backs up the term ‘immense’.

I hope everyone else feels that way too, because it’s an amazing feeling.

It's the same angle. But it changes colour. Hence the 'n' number of pictures.

It's dead. The starfish, is dead. Was dead. To hell with tenses; I saw a starfish.

Mornings can be a little painful on the eyes.

I ate one of them.
Dad ate one of the others.
Mum watched indulgently.

Insect.

Fresh catch,

which Dad decided to buy.

Weirdly shaped temple in a tiny village/town/district (I have no idea and have no intention of causing offence so I just covered my bases) called Contai. We're still wondering if the structure on the left with the minarets is a mosque. Now THAT would add a whole lot to the picture. 

Something Fishy On My Way Home

It's a leaf. 

I swear on my toenails that it's a leaf. 

Love,

A