Back with a bang
26 January 2006

A lot has happened in the months since my last blog entry. Honestly my updating rate is pathetic, but I can plead 'not guilty' for some reasons. While it is not so obvious in the last blog entry, the actual reason for getting the train was that I had a mission. Perhaps that is too haughty a word. Let's say, I had a particular reason to go to Delhi, and that required a certain dedication to the purpose. This also meant that other pursuits must suffer as a result of it. I stayed three months in Delhi which was a great learning experience. After that I came back home for my brother's wedding which was scheduled for 17th of November, barely nine days after I landed. Needless to say, I had to get in the thick of things. The wedding (I am sure I shall have a lot to say regarding the wedding in some other space) over, I was anxious and busy to do something about me. I mean, I was more than 25 and without a job, and that was not something to be proud of. So I came to Bangalore. Right now as I reacquaint myself to blogging once again, I have a job which is easy. I am staying with a friend, and very recently I got the internet connection installed at home so that I could relish a little bit in the World Wide Web. I have some small plans which I shall try to fulfill one by one. Let's see.
 

Missing the train
5 August, 2005. Kolkata 63.

God knows how many times one hears of the phrase 'missing the train'. But in actuality, not many have missed a train. When this tragedy befalls someone else, we are pressed to smile in amusement. How foolish. Or maybe, we blame a traffic jam or a CPM procession. But then, until and unless one actually suffers the tragedy, one does not know what it means. Jiski pair na phati biwai, so kya jaane peer parayee? And so I suffered.

So, I packed the heavy bags and went to Howrah with my dad. The coolie comes and asks which train are we to board. I say 'Poorva'. There are two of them. They look at each other. They ask 'Poorva or Purvachal'? I say 'Poorva'. And then the bombshell: 'Poorva to 9:25 ko chali gayee'. I look perplexed. By this time dad had approached after paying the cabbie. I look at my ticket and claim that the ticket says the departure time is 10:34. They look at the ticket and says that I was reading the time the ticket was issued! I look a little to the right, and there it was in clear print: Dep 0925 hrs. Dad looks in perplexity at the ticket. He charges me with incompetence; 'you cannot even read a ticket?' Well, it would seem I cannot. A smartass had come up to us by this time. He took our luggage to a shed. And then he took me to the counter to get the refund, and apply for the next ticket. Through the labyrinth of officialese, I saw many places. I learnt how to read the ticket. How to get a refund. I saw a ticket agent who promised to get tickets and reservation made. It was an eye opener. As I write this, it strikes me that there is a city within the Howrah Station. And there are whole industries supported by the many who visit the station. One frequents the trains and the station so often, and yet one only scratches the surface of the life of this station. While there are a thousand things I can philosophise about this experience, I would keep myself to only a couple.

It was a tragedy. Especially coming back after having got such a handsome farewell was humiliating to say the least. But it was a learning experience nonetheless. Good thing is that, apart from the obvious monetary loss and harassment, I did not suffer any real damage as the postponement would attract no damaging penalty on my scheme of things. It remains an experience that I would carry to my grave (again!). And I have been properly reprimanded from making more damaging mistakes.

Another thing struck me as I saw two male white foreigners come of the station and being accosted by two agents, is that the foreigners always face the worst specimen of our species upon landing in India. Things are so badly arranged that without the agents the foreigners would be hard pressed to get things done. Blame civil, official, political and private sector apathy for this. And yet they are screwed so brutally on each occasion that they carry a bad taste throughout their journey and bad memories back to their homes. Wish I could say that the agents are only a few bad apples in the crop of a whole farm. I get increasingly convinced that the whole crop is corrupt, more or less. But then that is matter for another philosophising. Till another time...
 

 
Gandhiji must be 'turning in his grave'!
5 August, 2005. Kolkata 63.

Yesterday's The Telegraph had an editorial by Achin Vanaik, a well known JNU professor and columnist. Titled 'As insecure as before', it talks of the nuclear irresponsibility of USA on the eve of the 60th anniversary of the Hiroshima bombings. On this occasion my object of focus is not any comment made or idea expressed. Rather it is a turn of phrase which had me thinking.

In the last paragraph of his article, he writes: 'Mahatma Gandhi...must now be turning in his grave'. Now, that is a very thoughtless thing to say. Vanaik knows much better that Gandhiji was cremated in the most famous cremation of history, in 1948. The fact is that we have internalised an alien language and made it our very own to such an extent that we forget that while adopting the language, we also adopt many cultural mores and ideas of the mother country. Of course, every one is put inside a grave in England where English originated. And so it made perfect sense to the Englishmen when they invented the phrase 'to turn in one's grave'. While it applies to a much more extent where idioms and phrases are concerned, native influence is very much there in most of the words. In this context, linguists have come out with their play on the concept. They say that most words have a denotation and a connotation. The denotation gives the literal, scientific, quantifiable and empirical meaning. Connotation, on the other hand, is more subtle complex of culture, experience, emotions, values, geography etc that attach itself to the denoted meaning of a word. Thus, a word can connote two different things in two different contexts, times or places. When we adopt an alien language, we add some domestic flavour to the language, which would make not much sense to an original practitioner of the language. At the same time we accept some of those alient connotations. While some of these phrases are rejected, some become ossified and accepted, and we use the word or phrase without much thought.

I think 'to turn in one's grave' hasn't yet been ossified into blind acceptance. In a country where the vast majority are cremated, grave is not a very recognised concept. One does not know where Gandhiji is right now - perhaps he is in heaven if there is one - but he surely must be turning in his grave at his coming to this end, or at this storm in a teacup.
 

My first bottle of wine

My first wine
31 July, 2005. Kolkata 63.

I cannot remember for how long, but I have always wanted to have a taste of wine. There is this aura of aristocracy and respectability when you have wine. Wine, with its association of the Mediterranean, which is my favourite place on earth, and all the ancient civilisations in the far flung domains of exotica, has a curious attraction. At times when the expectations of this universe seem like a repressive albatross around one's neck the thought of respite in a draught of this heavenly intoxication seems helpful. A little indulgence till the wrath of grapes hits you, and you join the merry crowd of Bacchus, consciousness forgotten, the world dissolving like a surrealist painting. And the thought that you can drink the blood of Christ (The Roman Catholic concept of transubstantiation) is very heady indeed.

To me, alcohol, beer and wine, although always so attractive, are only occasional friends. I always need an occasion,  a reason for indulgence. Unlike my friends. They get an empty house and are game for some whisky or vodka. It would seem I am also a little resistant to intoxication. It takes me quite a quantity to forget myself. Something that I cannot afford to do at home. But that is precisely the object - to forget oneself. After all, if one is not drunk and tipsy, what is the use of a drink? But getting drunk at home where I am always supposed to stay sober, isn't quite an attractive proposition. My ideal bout of drink is in some faraway place, where no one knows me, and where I can be a drunk ruffian, a babbling lout on the street. Honestly, I do not have a taste for alcohol. I do not cherish it. To me a simple cold drink is much more relishable - I like the taste, and it seems heavenly when I am thirsty. Apparently my friends can tell the difference between a whisky, a vodka or a rum. I cannot. To me they are all the same. I do not even have a tongue for quality. Feed me a Sikkim whisky and then a Scotch whisky, and I would still think that I drank dog piss on both occasions. Beer is the most abhorrent. I call it horse piss. I hate the bitter taste. It doesn't make me tipsy even if I gulp down a litre. So, what's the use? People say you drink beer when you are thirsty. Well, they may. I drink cold water. Or soft cold drink when I have an option. After a lot of analysis I have come to the conclusion that I am more in love with the idea of drinking than drinking itself. Of course I have something of the sensibility of a Devdas. But kaun kambakth jeeney ke liye peeta hai?

Yesterday night I had my first sip of wine. Red wine. My parents recently returned from a trip to Europe and they were presented with complimentary bottles of wine on the Air France flights. There was an occasion for the indulgence, of course, but let that pass. I just took one small peg, saving the precious liquid for more important occasions to come. So how was it? Well, it smelled exactly like beer, which was bad. It tasted bitter and the liquid was slippery to the tongue. It looked good - sparkling scarlet. But all in all, I was absolutely disappointed. All my big ideas about good old wine were shattered.