Death of a Bangalee

In a video that has recently gone viral in the Bengali inter-webs, noted Bengali intellectual Chandril lets loose on the moribund state of the Bengali language. To sum up his arguments: Bengali as a language is progressing to its death. This is because speaking in English and Hindi has a premium feel to it, while Bengali, in its most traditional form, reeks of “I am sorry, I couldn’t do any better in life”. While recognizing the inevitability of a language changing, he draws a distinction between a type of change that is inevitable, like developing a bald spot, and the type of change that is death, like having the head cut off. Bengali, he posits, is on the latter path, and while one may have issues with his basic premise, one cannot but be amazed by the way he delivers it, the turn of phrase, the Bengali he himself uses, and the examples he digs out to support his contention. 

Chandril on Bangla Bhasha

For me personally, the change in Bengali is disquieting, in the way many other changes to Calcutta and Bengal are. I first started being aware of this change through the lyrics of Bengali movie songs like “Yeh haowa silky silky bole jaaye baatein dil ki, chalo na bheshe jaai jowaare, rubaro, masti maange dil maahi ve” and “Ooh lala I love you my Soniye ooh lala” where the sheer number of Hindi words overpowered Bangla. And then I happened to watch some Bengali movies, and listen to Bengali celebrities talk, and it’s not just the words that hit me in the stomach, it was the effing pronunciation. For some strange reason, Bengalis born and brought up in Kolkata can’t seem to pronounce Bangla anymore.

Where I disagree with Chandril is on the concept of death. A language does not die as long as it is used by people. Here his counterpoint is that just because a language is used by a lot of people, does not mean it is alive, it matters only if it is used by rich people. This to me is elitist Bangla has mutated, no doubt, and this makes many of us uncomfortable, but that does not de-legitimize what it has become.

And to me what’s important is not that Bengali has mutated, but why it has mutated. It is because the classical model of the pure tongue has failed, decades of Communism by name and now Communism by proxy, has led to flight of those who spoke in classical Bangla, to other states and to other shores. Calcutta, the bastion of the fair tongue whose demise Chandril laments, has been gutted of its middle class, leaving either the super-rich, many of whom non-Bengalis by birth, or the poor, immigrants from Bihar and UP and Bangladesh, and the mutations of Bangla, the influx of Hindi words and the twisting of the pronunciations, reflect that shift in the underlying demographics.

What Chandril ends up doing is articulating, in a very articulate way, the anger of the last vestiges of the intellectual middle class still in Calcutta, the reduction in prominence manifesting itself as rage at the change in what was once a comforting constant, the words they hear.

Which also explains why there is the strong whiff of persecution-mania that runs through this argument that , Bengalis are ashamed of Bengali. As I had once said in a debate with the editor of Desh, the language you will find most Bengalis want to learn is Java, (and yes Java has all the characteristics of a language, there is good code and there is bad code and there are rules of grammar), and it’s not because they feel ashamed of the languages they know, but because Java is the language that affords them the most opportunities. Bengalis write in English because they want to be read by more people, not because they find it downmarket.

If there is something the Bengali intellectuals should be angry at is the manifestation of the mutation, but what caused it, and most importantly, their own continuing complicity in that very change. To put it simply, you can’t go on lobbying for BongoShonmans by anointing Mamata Banerjee as Rabindranath Tagore reborn and then turn around and rue the fact that people use “keno ki” as a surrogate for “kyon ki”.

The Problem with Perfection

32 26 32…. That’s the magic number right?

Who made this the magic number?

Who made fair, tall, thin, doe-like eyes, rosy lips is the ideal beauty, right?

Who set this standard?

I bet you desperately want to know the answers to these questions. I do too.

I don’t have the answers to these questions, but I do know that you have a greater problem with people around you who believe in these standards of beauty more than the people who made the norm. You probably have a problem with yourself too for believing these unrealistic standards of beauty and failing at achieving them.

Every new person you meet and of course the old acquaintances have an opinion about how you look, about the colour of your skin, your eyes, your nose, your lips, your pimples, your eyebrows, body hair, weight, height and what not. Strangely enough, these opinions are almost similar. We have all been culturally conditioned into believing these standards of beauty.

The problem is that we believe these stereotypical notions and examine ourselves on the basis of the set standards. We then tirelessly try to achieve these standards, go on diets, beauty treatments, ridiculous fitness regimes, sometimes even surgery. But then we end up feeling bad irrespective of whether we’ve achieved these goals or not, because this internal negative critique has transformed into a habit. Even when one fit into the perfect size, the happiness does not last, as the body image issues have become an integral part of people’s self-definition and anything else seems unfamiliar. 

Why does perfection need to be a punishing routine, leading to obsessive, rigid behaviour? Why should it rely heavily on judgement, and exclude normal life? Obviously, it isn’t meant to be a human trait. Human beings are designed to have flaws; perfection is meant for the Gods.

Usually we strive toward being perfect to compensate for a sense of inadequacy. People who want to be perfect usually have an exaggerated sense of their own shortcomings. They typically received messages earlier in life that they weren't good enough. So they decided that only by being perfect would they be beyond reproach. Perfectionists tend to think that other people are somehow better or superior to them, so they need to be without flaw just to catch up. 

Yesterday was one of those days when my urge to look appealing won over my common sense. So I finished all my household chores and went to the parlour. I am not the usual college going or young client so the look the hairdresser gave me told me everything he thought about me. I said that I had come for a hair treatment. He showed me to a chair. And then my ordeal started.

He started by saying that my hair was completely damaged and that nothing could be done. My hair lacked moisture and strength according to him. I felt that I had wasted a trip and was ready to leave since he said that there was nothing he could do.

He stopped me and said that he would try to do the necessary corrections (yes, that’s what he said). I sat there for two hours and all the time he was just telling me how bad my hair was. I listened to all of it and didn’t want to say anything while my hair was in his hands.

When he was done, the look he gave me reminded me of the ugly duckling story. I paid the bill, said thank you, and me being me, could not leave without telling him what I thought.

I told him that my hair was dry and unmanageable, which was the very reason for which I came to the parlour. I told him that he was giving me a service for which he was charging me and he should stop giving unsolicited advice. I said that I was well informed about the condition of my hair and also the remedies available. I tipped him nevertheless and walked out.

It is not the first time that this has happened; every time we go to a parlour, the beautician will reveal so many imperfections in our faces, bodies and hair that sometimes we may end up believing that we are really very ugly.

I know they are trying to promote their business and sell as much as they can but sometimes, even if rarely, it may dent our confidence.

It’s about time we too stop torturing ourselves and others with these unrealistic standards of the ideal beauty. Because hey, there is no ideal! So let’s start by accepting and loving ourselves. Let’s change the definitions of beauty; beauty is something very abstract anyway. Make a conscious effort not to judge people by their appearance and judge all ads that reinforce the irrational standards of beauty. 

And always remember that the character of your mind and internal being (soul, if you will) can never match the outward appearance, so turn a deaf ear to those voices that tell you about your bodily imperfections. So let’s flaunt the hairy and waxed limbs, flabby curves and bony edges, fair and dark skin, scars and dimples alike devoid of all filters.

Rain in Winter

There were intrepid clouds, heavy nimbus, shades of violet, purple, greys and a peculiar orange circumscribing the skies. Fields of yonder, accustomed to the Sunshine, its dazzle and warmth... Wanted the soothe of the rain drops, the first mirth of the fertility awaiting the green grass and flowers of all colours... The scent of the earth and the song of the air on beats of thunder. And so it rained. It rained, clouds of the South Sky did pour. Drenched Soul.. Soaring spirits. Love, may be in Pune.

....before there was the first inflorescence, colours vanished away from the flower palettes. May be it rained too heavy. May be it din’t rain as much.

Charm, as it is, what goes around comes around...some molten shades, evaporated and amalgamated in the clouds that had decided to pour. They came with the show of glamour, lightening along to keep the Earth mesmerized  And like a magician, the clouds did spellbound the heart and soul, which were more than ever young this season. My dear city, happy with some rains somewhere, hopeful of the clouds that would come and pour unconditionally.

(Unconditional, has a clause yet of having no condition. Expectations seeps in, in form of being formless.)

And we, yearning and learning, passively. Praying some rains, though dismaying the clouds. Nature has its own plan, destiny its own. Dried up earth was soon to be sold.

And then it was to happen. Divinity into action. This time of the celesta, the darkest clouds, thick with hues of gravity, each shade conveying its own virtue. The smoked browns talked of the experiences carried along while floating till this patch of Land, blues talking of the depth the cloud had, the intensity it had, the rains it can cast. Grays telling the stories of the unexpected , the Blacks talking aloud of the ability to engulf, some White here and there telling of the silence that wisdom attains and that glistening violet, the unending enigma! This was it. The rains were to come... it had to pour. The bosom of the Earth had to be damp. It had to be damp to be off the enrapture of being barren . Be off the mirage of clouds. For this time it was real. It was to stay. Forever.

And it rained. There was a melody in the heart of the Earth, there was a poem in the rain drops, there was harmony in nature. A Love Song was born. Perpetual One.