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”.

Kolkata Book Fair - a potpourri of memories

My association with the Book Fair goes back to the days when I had just started bearing the idea of what books were. I was born in a typical Kolkata family where books are valued and archived. This is one of the many common things which run in the households of my city, the others being a compilation of Tagore’s works, immense love for all culinary delicacies  and an album of Mohiner Ghoraguli.



“Book Fair! So it is an entire fair dedicated to books?”

“Yes, lots of books from home and abroad.”


My father had a rather simple way of explaining the concept of a fair dedicated completely to books to me.

That was many years ago. Since then, many things have changed -“Calcutta” is now called “Kolkata”, the venue of the fair has moved from “Kolkata Maidan” to a much more organised and environment friendly “Milan Mela grounds” and I have outgrown a grey hair or two.

In between all that, the book fair has managed to become something that I look forward to, every year. Not only because it is about one of my favourite things – books, but also about a few of my favourite people.

The Book Fair was not just a matter of a few days; it was months of preparation and hard work for the the organizers as well as the writers. Way back in the late 90s, when Facebook and Twitter were a near future, the writers and translators depended on these fairs as a platform to get known to the world.This annual cultural event is actually potpourri of books, friends, nostalgia, music, food, people and of course, ‘adda’.

My first memories of the book fair relates to buying “Nonte Phonte” comic books or Chinese short story books translated in Bengali while holding my father’s hands. He was the one who introduced me to the world of 'Calcutta' Book Fair. During those days, the fair used to be held at Kolkata Maidan. I was barely six or seven and the mighty gates, huge crowds and the sight of the imposing Victoria Memorial nearby, sketched a picture of molten warmth wrapped Kolkata winter in my mind. Somehow, that is one imagery of Kolkata that has remained with me always.

I used to stare at the huge volumes of “Sarat Rochonaboli” or works of Sunil Gangopadhyay on the racks while my father said – “Ogulo na boroder boi, boro holey porbey, kemon?” (Those are books for grown-ups. You can read them when you are a grown-up too.)

Time, they say, waits for none. While ‘growing up’ I still visited Book fair religiously with my father every year but I also went back several times every year along with my friends. I progressed from Feluda to a more mature Byomkesh or the complex Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot on the ‘detective’ stories front.

My annual trips to book fair also gradually turned out to be ones where I would buy new novels of Suchitra Bhattacharya, get acquainted with the classic works of Jane Austen and Ashapurna Devi.

I was not living anymore in Kolkata when the venue shifted to Milan Mela grounds. As I read the news, my heart longed for the the Benfish stall right in the middle of the fair. Okay, I confess. I ate all of them. Because one should never book-hunt on an empty stomach. Or discriminate between the Coffee House laddoo, the Rollick ice cream, the Fish Fry from Benfish and the Paan from Mantu’s.

I did not attend the fair for many years in between. When I returned to live in Kolkata again, many a fancy new book stores had opened up in the city while the eternal College Street was always there, yet the joy of smelling a bag full of fresh new books bought at the book fair had not waned a bit. Just the way, the ritual of holding hands with your first love and gathering at the book fair to share your story with a set of trusted friends never gets old.

The eternally youthful city the continues to discuss which stall has the biggest queue, which new author is asking the most uncomfortable questions through the pen or just breaks into a new song of hope, every now and then.

Kolkata Book Fair is actually a celebration of our lives, of good old charm of Kolkata, of winter afternoons, of books and old friends and first loves – first loves which were about old Bengali classics and the fragrance of the ‘forbidden’ hidden inside the first read Saratchandra novel.

Dream Job – Made in China

I had the perfect job. The one I always wanted—in an exciting industry, for a big name company, with a title that says I get to do what I love all day long. Except for that—well, I hate it.

It's painful to admit it. My job went from being the greatest job ever to being a horrible job. It took a few months so I didn't completely realize it was happening. And speaking from experience, the grieving and recovery process is quite long.

I know, at some point in your career – maybe at multiple points – you’re probably going to have a bad boss but when that person turns into a real nightmare, it’s explainable. And as it turns out, a terrible boss doesn't just impact the way you work in the office. It affects your entire life.

...And if your peers are women! Forget the sisterhood. Forget smashing a hole through the glass ceiling and throwing a rope ladder down to her younger female colleagues. The Queen Bee is alive and well and — watch out — possibly sitting at the desk next to you.

A Queen Bee is someone who has worked her way up to the top in a male-dominated organisation! Rest I leave it up to you to decide and in my case I had two of them.

I have been witness to people exploiting their positions for their personal gains. These ‘higher authority’s feedback were biased and echoed no work ethic. When the time came for my evaluations, my bosses gave me a 15 min. lecture about how to ‘act’ like the Queen Bees. I guess, such is the way to climb up the ladder in A-grade media houses in India. Shorter your pants, bigger your salary!

"In this economy," we're told, "you should be thankful you have a job at all." Well, yes... But also; no.

Being able to support yourself is important, of course, but anyone who is aware of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs will tell you that once your basic needs are covered, you'll automatically yearn for more. You may have a job, a home, a husband and children, and still wonder, 'Is that all there is?'

If you're young and ambitious, it's not enough to have a job - you have to have the job. There is so much emphasis on a coveted career: a job that doesn't just sound cool, but which gives other people a case of the green-eyed monster. When I was a kid, everyone wanted to be a doctor or a lawyer. These days, we want to be do-it-yourself millionaires, zippy entrepreneurs or wacky internet personalities.

For the people stuck in this trap, the appearance of the job matters more than the reality. But why slave away to impress people you don't even like?

But , imagine you’re “living the dream,” as you told your proud parents and envious friends upon receiving the offer letter. When you walk through those fancy doors to your fairy-tale

job every day with Katy Perry’s “Firework” blasting in your head, all you can think is: “The perks! The title! The bragging rights!” Who cares that you’re working 90 hours a week and your boss is a borderline psychopath? You’ve “made it,” and there’s no looking back!

With time I figured out, I was spending most of my effort each day trying to take on the persona I needed for the position I wanted—a persona that just didn’t come naturally to me. It was exhausting, and no matter how hard I tried to force it to be a fit, it just wasn’t.

My admission came when I got off of work exhausted and bullied by my bosses, yet again, raced to the nearest pub to meet my girlfriends, and burst into tears when they asked how my day was. (Of course, while sobbing, I swore up and down, “I’m really happy though, guys!” until they held a compact mirror in my face and asked, “Oh, really? Is that what happiness looks like?” (Touché.)

I struggled to get past the feeling that I was giving up the perfect opportunity—the opportunity I’d been wanting for so long, one that “most people would kill for.” And one day, I decided to throw my resignation letter up on my boss’s face who’s nothing but a faff. And I did just that.

It took a while for me to recover from such a trauma. My fiancé who’s my husband now, were very supportive. At times, it’s very important to have a partner who understands your needs even before you say. Yes, here comes the best part of this job – I got married. And like a knight in armour (pun intended) R flew me in his (well...Indigo’s) jet and I went from a world of meetings and suits where people listened to my opinion to being a nobody writing a book in a cafe.

Kolkata Kaleidoscope

From Personal Achives

In the modern day of urbanization, most of the modern cities in India love to call themselves cosmopolitan and not just mere cities thriving around the periphery of an Indian state. Tell someone who lives in Mumbai that he lives in a Maharastrian city; he will immediately correct you as being a cosmopolitan. The same goes with people living in other parts of the country.

 Not the case with Calcutta. The city is essentially Bengali and leaves no stones unturned to preserve the Bengali culture. Surprisingly, people living in Bengal are proud about the fact that Calcutta hasn’t lost its old world charm. If you delve deep into it, you’ll find that the city’s weaknesses and strengths that echo a unique Bengali character.

From Personal Achives

The city has its own drawbacks, from the sudden bouts of passion through cheerful pandemonium to fiery reaction to a smallest provocation.  However, these flaws are strengths in disguise.  Calcutta incarnates the Bangalee love in the name of culture, the triumph of intellectualism over avarice, the warmth among people, disdain with which hypocrisy and insincerity are treated and the supremacy of emotion over all other aspects.

This gives ‘the city of joy’ uniqueness and it is not meant for everyone. You want your city green and clean; go to Delhi. You want your city to be impersonal and rich, stick to Mumbai. You want your city to be hi-tech – Bangalore is the answer. But you want a city which has soul – come to Kolkata.

Calcutta grows on you.  It’s just not the lush Maidan, the grandeur of Victoria Memorial, the hustle-bustle of Burrabazar or the brilliance of second Hoogly Bridge. It is more than the usual bricks and mortars; it’s about the ‘people’. And no one can replicate the essence of the city’s dwellers.

From Personal Achives

Calcutta is about subtle emotions, art, culture, passion and ideas. Here, people don’t talk about stock market, but about the latest political gossip reported on a newspaper. They talk about Robi Thakur and Mamata Banerjee with the same exuberance. Each evening,  a true-blood Bengali will want fish on his table, his children will be encouraged to take up a new form of art, he will appreciate good book – something that still bind every Bangalee with his culture. For him, religion and culture will be in inextricably bound together.

From Personal Achives

Talking about religion, tell anyone about Pujo in Kolkata and they’ll scoff. Puja is religious they’ll say. Contrary to the belief, the world-famous Durga puja is just not about chanting hymns or worshipping the Goddess. It’s about the varied emotions of the city – like a grand carnival. It has little to do with meaningless ritual or sinister political activity. The essence of Puja is that all the passions of Bengal converge: emotion, culture, the love of life, the warmth of being together, the joy of celebration, the pride inartistic expression and yes, the cult of the goddess. There’s no place you’ll find where children cry on Dashimi as Maa Durga bids farewell to the lesser mortals. Where else would the whole city gooseflesh when the dhakis first begin to beat their drums? Which other Indian festival - in any part of the country - is so much about food and pandal hopping?

To understand Calcutta, you need to understand the very essence of Bangla.  It’s not easy, but as time goes by you start falling in love with the city. And after a while, you’ll realise that the city has stolen your soul. Wherever you go, you’ll carry a bit of the ‘city of joy’ with you. Such is the essence of Calcutta – a feeling that never fades away!