Thanda Lege Jaabey

A friend of mine forwarded this mail. Nirmally, I would delete it without ado. But the bengali in me, empathaised with it. So here it is, the unedited version.

One phrase every Bengali worth his sweater has grown up with is thanda lege jabey. It is the ultimate warning of impending doom, an unadulterated form of existentialist advice. Thanda lege jabey. Thou shalt 'catch the cold'.

'Catching the cold' comes easy to Bengalis. It's a skill that's acquired almost immediately after birth. Watch a Bengali baby and you would know. Wrapped in layers of warm clothing even if the sun is boiling the mercury, the baby learns quickly that his chances of survival in a Bengali household depend on how tightly he can wrap
himself in cotton, linen and wool. Bengalis have almost romanticised warm clothing, so much so that Bengali art has found eloquent expression in a form of quilt-stitchwork called kantha.

I'm sure wool-shearers even in faraway Australia say a silent prayer to Bengalis before the shearing season (if there's any such season). I'm also sure the very thought of Bengalis sends a chill down the spine of many a sheep.

In winter, the quintessential Bengali's outfit puts the polar bear to shame. Packaged in at least seven layers of clothing and the head snugly packed inside the queerest headgear, the monkey cap, he takes the chill head on.

Easy lies the head that wears the monkey cap. With a pom-pom at the top, it's not just a fashion statement; it's a complete fashion paragraph.

I remember strolling down the Walk of Fame in Hollywood on a pleasant May evening.
My eyes scanned the glittering stars on the asphalt - each an ode to a Hollywood heavyweight. Suddenly, my ears caught the unmistakable Doomsday warning - 'thanda lege jabey'. I stood transfixed. The Hollywood Walk of Fame is probably the last place one would like to get caught 'catching the cold'. I turned around. There was this Bengali family braving the American chill. The young brat of the family was adamant that he didn't want any more clothing but mom wouldn't have any of it - "sweater porey nao, thanda lege jabey." I need not translate that. Mom won, and the family - sweaters et al - posed for a photograph.

For a race that is perpetually running scared of cold weather, Bengalis have a surprising affinity for hill stations.

Probably, warmth of heart is best preserved in shawls, pullovers and cardigans.
In an age when you are judged by how cool or uncool you are,the warmth that the kakus, jethus and mashimas exude can melt icebergs. I wouldn't trade that warmth for any amount of cool. However, the monkeycap may look cool without the pom-pom.

The things people say...

Sometimes, well-meaning people leave me irritated. It’s because the things they say without thinking about it. (Due apologies to college professors, parents, friend’s parents and some friends.)
Here is my top seven list. I’m sure each one of you has a list as well. Please feel free to add:

1. If you were sorry, you wouldn’t have done it.: Airhead! I am sorry, because I have done it. If I hadn’t done it, I wouldn’t be sorry in the first place.

2. Life is short.: Did I miss something here? Living is the longest thing you’ll ever do. Or did you have plans after you were dead?

3. Can I borrow your book?: Of course you CAN. But do I want to give it to you? No. If you are asking my permission, the correct usage is, MAY I borrow your book? And the answer is still No.

4. It’s the last place you’ll ever look.: Obviously. Or did you plan to keep looking for it even after you found it. You are either jobless or a basket case.

5. Learn to stand on your own two feet.: Huh!? Sunshine! Could you tell me how to stand on somebody else’s two feet?

6. You’ve come for the movie?: No idiot! I paid good money to come stare at the posters. And the once I am done, I want to save the stub for my stub collection.

7. Don’t walk on grass.: Would it be okay if I run on it? Or would it be okay if I sit on it? Or did you mean, "Keep off the grass."?

The Conceit of Bangalore.

Six months back, there was a fire in the basement of my apartment. There were no casualties apart from a couple of burnt motorbikes. But it was enough to wake up the somnolent Kannadiga Babus. At the subsequent General Body meeting, I realised fifty percent of the people didn’t know each other (including yours truly). Many of them had been staying in the same place for the past 15 years.

Fast forward to last month. I was going out for lunch with a friend. While getting into an auto, I noticed a lady waiting for an auto. I offered to drop her to her destination if she was going my way. The lady politely declined, but my friend was taken aback. He couldn’t understand how I could offer a lift to a stranger. In his words, “I wouldn’t have ever done it.”

What was the big deal, I thought? It was 11 am. And bang in the middle of the busiest part of MG Road.

These two seemingly unconnected incidents set me thinking. Is Bangalore really the friendly city that it’s made out to be? Step away from Page 3 of Bangalore Times and a different picture emerges. And it took me five years to realise what I had suspected all along.

Bangaloreans are terribly aloof and inward looking. Any hint of over-familiarity and they tend to withdraw into themselves. Visitors, are made to feel less than welcome. What the Bangaloreans fail to realise is, once you become a cosmopolitan city, it no longer belongs to you.

Sure, they are always quick with a smile. And ever polite when asked for help. But that’s where it stopped. It took me six months to break through this attitude at work. The auto drivers would refuse to acknowledge me when I spoke to them in Hindi. Dare I say it, there was even a hint of arrogance. Even worse, a few people I spoke with used to speak about people from North Karnataka as if they were from some other planet.

Where does this sense of superiority come from? Culture? The cultural scene of Bangalore is an apology compared to the vibrant cultural scene of Chennai, Mumbai, Kolkatta or even Delhi (yes, even Delhi).

Intellectual ability? What’s that? Bangalore does not have a book fair of its own. What could be more telling?

Intellectual tolerance? Six months back, cinema halls were almost shut down because no non-Kannada films could be released before three weeks of their worldwide release. Add to that the fact that, it's the only state to have a state flag as well as the national flag.

Perhaps the reason for this inward looking attitude goes back to history.

Delhi has been the capital of seven empires. It has faced attacks from hordes who came over the Hindu Kush mountains and Delhi has assimilated them all. It has made the city more gregarious.

The Chinese and the Burmese have made Calcutta their home. The British made it their first capital. Bombay is the epitome of a modern cosmopolitan city. It welcomes everyone with open arms.

But Bangalore has always been a small city in the south. It was shielded from attacks by foreign powers until 1831 when the British took over the administration. It was only the IT revolution of the 90s that changed the social fabric of the city forever.

But the mentality still remains provincial. It is a village that has grown up too fast, too soon. End of.

A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole

This book is a tragedy. And it’s a comedy.

The tragedy happened even before the book was printed. The writer, John Kennedy Toole wrote this book when he was 29. He spent the next three years trying to get it published. Finally, depressed, when he couldn’t get it published, he committed suicide. It was through the painstaking efforts of his mother, that the book was published.

The book won the Pulitzer in 1989.

The comedy is the protagonist: Ignatius J Reilly. Bombast-par-extraordinaire. He is an intellectual, a glutton, the chief of Moral Police rolled into one. If the cause is just, he will fight.

He is probably one of the weirdest characters in modern literature. Like an accident on the road, you just can’t turn your face away.

The book traces his life in New Orleans.

His mother thinks he should be working somewhere. His sex-crazed girlfriend Myrna Minkoff thinks he needs sex. He thinks he is better off lying in his flannel nightgown and eating Big Chief tablets. Along the way, he stumbles from one adventure to another: from selling hotdogs to selling jeans.

A critic sums it up beautifully, “A Confederacy of Dunces is as complicated as anything you'll find in a Dickens novel, and just as beautifully tied together in the end. But it is Ignatius--selfish, domineering, and deluded, tragic and comic and larger than life--who carries the story.”

In defence of the passive person.

For too long, the ordinary Joe has been taken for granted. He has been called ordinary, boring, commonplace and prosaic mercilessly. But the fact is, the ordinary Joe likes to do what he is best at: being mundane and passive. He doesn’t want to be a superhero. He doesn’t want to save the world. He just wants to get on with life. After all, Mother Nature has programmed into our DNA that everyone is not meant to be a superhero. But make no mistake, it’s not easy being an Everyman.

Let’s take something as mundane as a ration card. Getting a ration card means endless queues in government offices. If you don’t get that elusive yellow and red cardboard book, you don’t exist. No ration card means no proof of residence. No proof of residence means the government doesn’t know you exist. If you don’t exist, you don’t get a telephone connection. You don’t get a water connection. You don’t get a passport. And you don’t get a driving license. Unless of course you are prepared to bribe corrupt government officials at every step.

Everyman spends a good part of his life fighting for basic amenities. Can we blame him for not having the inclination to fight? And try to be different?

Not me.

I didn’t protest when they demolished the Babri Masjid. I didn’t protest about the Gujrat riots. I didn’t protest when the Shiv Sainiks beat up some poor kids on Valentine’s day. I didn’t protest on the Shah Bano verdict. And I didn’t protest when they mercilessly chopped trees on MG Road.

No sir. I didn’t.

I didn’t protest because I have a bigger fight on my hands: living. And I believe in this day and age, nothing is worth fighting for. Ms. Shakuntala Verma, who has two stumps for hands would agree. Was it worth it to speak out against child marriage? The country will give out some trinkets, some politician will make the politically correct noises. And in a couple of year’s time, she will be another statistic.

Let’s take an example closer home. An account director in my agency says, he needs people to fit into the system. And why not? The system has evolved after a lot of thought and effort. Give it a chance. The account director needs drones and he hires drones. You can’t have a queen bee sitting in a secretary’s chair.

I admit, it’s a selfish viewpoint to have, but I have only one life. I want it to be simple. And I want to be left alone. When I go back home, I don’t want to be bothered about all the ills of the world. I want to sit in front of the TV and flip channels endlessly. I want to read a book and go to sleep. And someday I will slip into the netherworld, unnoticed, unsung. What could be more blissful than that?