Father and mother at home in Calcutta were religious. Every rite was performed. Every ritual observed. Mostly they would get up at 4 in the morning, light the diya in the puja room with walls of gods and goddesses, pray. Irritated me, never dared to protest. Father would come down hard. Me learnt cowardice. A second session started from 7 to 9.30 and none could breathe at home. Silence was ordered as father beat down shlokas and mantras. We were close to sighting Paramatman Ram. A third session in the evening. They went hard at me; me was happy outside home, unhappy at home; Calcutta was Maidan, Lakes, adda, beautiful Bengali women ... quietly flowing by like the dirty-brown Hooghly with its wooden boats and boatmen and steamers; became a confirmed Tamil Brahmin at the age of 9 when the Upanayanam was done over two days with me given doses of cow's urine. Many, many near and dear and distant ones were present. Father's lone son Brahmined. It was again a father decision. The home priest, Rangu Vadhyar, gave urine and dung in strong Hinduistic doses. Me never protested. Me learnt cowardice. Father buzzed me with holy books and till today, at 70, have not read a single holy book - Ramayana, Mahabharata, Gita or Narayaneeam. They did not interest me; they do not interest me; bore me; do not make any difference to me. Outside on Calcutta streets, peace of sports at the Maidan and Lakes; and that thrilled; the Bihari bhaiya, tinkling a hand-pulled rickshaw, would softly hail a Siya Ramji ki if he knew you; and me knew some of them; at Hindi High School, there were morning prayers to Goddess Saraswathi ..... Ya kundendu tushara hara dhavala ..... which me never prayed; in a crowd me escaped. At St. Xavier's College, Father P. Turmes taught me economics; never did talk of Jesus; introduced me to Abraham Lincoln and books; Bengali and Hindi, me had a touch of finger familiarity. When me quit Calcutta forever and parents far away, and thanks be to the dash of luck, plucked out the sacred thread threw it off Howrah Bridge. In Bombay, no god or priest bothered me; spent me time in bars, some second hand books mostly bought off Flora Fountain, lots of cigarettes and some typing of press notes as a journalist; sports was and is an obsession. Me was left alone. There was no Jai Shri Ram; working in the Financial Express saw some Tamils with red bricks, etched Shree Ram, rushing to Ayodhya; and me never understood. And retired in Mumbai, watch men and women, on morning walks, wear fearsome lal-tikas on foreheads, greet each other a Jay Shree Ram in threatening battle tones, dislike and disown all without Rams..... safe in my cultivated cowardice me watch from the window an easy going India turning hard in the May sun.... me India is absent. Astu.
Friday, April 21, 2017
Me India
Father and mother at home in Calcutta were religious. Every rite was performed. Every ritual observed. Mostly they would get up at 4 in the morning, light the diya in the puja room with walls of gods and goddesses, pray. Irritated me, never dared to protest. Father would come down hard. Me learnt cowardice. A second session started from 7 to 9.30 and none could breathe at home. Silence was ordered as father beat down shlokas and mantras. We were close to sighting Paramatman Ram. A third session in the evening. They went hard at me; me was happy outside home, unhappy at home; Calcutta was Maidan, Lakes, adda, beautiful Bengali women ... quietly flowing by like the dirty-brown Hooghly with its wooden boats and boatmen and steamers; became a confirmed Tamil Brahmin at the age of 9 when the Upanayanam was done over two days with me given doses of cow's urine. Many, many near and dear and distant ones were present. Father's lone son Brahmined. It was again a father decision. The home priest, Rangu Vadhyar, gave urine and dung in strong Hinduistic doses. Me never protested. Me learnt cowardice. Father buzzed me with holy books and till today, at 70, have not read a single holy book - Ramayana, Mahabharata, Gita or Narayaneeam. They did not interest me; they do not interest me; bore me; do not make any difference to me. Outside on Calcutta streets, peace of sports at the Maidan and Lakes; and that thrilled; the Bihari bhaiya, tinkling a hand-pulled rickshaw, would softly hail a Siya Ramji ki if he knew you; and me knew some of them; at Hindi High School, there were morning prayers to Goddess Saraswathi ..... Ya kundendu tushara hara dhavala ..... which me never prayed; in a crowd me escaped. At St. Xavier's College, Father P. Turmes taught me economics; never did talk of Jesus; introduced me to Abraham Lincoln and books; Bengali and Hindi, me had a touch of finger familiarity. When me quit Calcutta forever and parents far away, and thanks be to the dash of luck, plucked out the sacred thread threw it off Howrah Bridge. In Bombay, no god or priest bothered me; spent me time in bars, some second hand books mostly bought off Flora Fountain, lots of cigarettes and some typing of press notes as a journalist; sports was and is an obsession. Me was left alone. There was no Jai Shri Ram; working in the Financial Express saw some Tamils with red bricks, etched Shree Ram, rushing to Ayodhya; and me never understood. And retired in Mumbai, watch men and women, on morning walks, wear fearsome lal-tikas on foreheads, greet each other a Jay Shree Ram in threatening battle tones, dislike and disown all without Rams..... safe in my cultivated cowardice me watch from the window an easy going India turning hard in the May sun.... me India is absent. Astu.
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