Karma

I have been practically living indoors for over seven weeks now. On the one or two occasions when I had to go outside for essential work, I had to clean myself obsessively after coming home. Even then, I inevitably spent the next few days worrying about catching the virus and dying. Between that and feeling anxious about family members back in India (not to speak of the millions of other people in the world), naturally, little else could occupy my mind during this time. So when I sat down to choose a Tagore poem to translate this year, I was still thinking of the pandemic and death and wondering whether the poet wrote anything applicable to the Coronavirus. As some geniuses on social media have already discovered, some Tagore creations are particularly suited for this situation.

So searching for a poem applicable to the pandemic, I came across a poem called "Karmaphal" (কর্মফল) which means payback for one's actions. While the subject of the poem isn't really pandemic-related, it can be argued that this terrible disease is a payback to Humanity for the blatant destruction of Nature and overcrowding the planet beyond its capacity. It also talks about dying and being born again in the same place, which is probably the most positive thing that you can think of when you are being forced to think about death all the time. So this was my choice.

Also, when I was thinking of a suitable English title for this poem, I realized the most suitable word was "Karma". Although the English language has pretty much internalized that word today, it is really the Sanskrit root in the actual Bengali title of this poem, and for the first time, my English translation of a Bengali poem has practically the same name as the original Bengali version (where it is neither a proper noun nor an English word). So here's my translation.

Karma

~ Rabindranath Tagore

If a next birth truly comes 

I know what is in my fate—

I’ll be drawn again to this

Capital of the Bengal state.

Poems and prose I’ve woven a lot,

In their snare I’ll get caught,

All faults in all that work will

Atone for their every vice—

Maybe I will have to then

My own writing criticize.

.

In those days, if by chance,

Loving readers I still retain.

Their ears will all blush crimson

I’ll call them such ugly names.

Any book that comes my way

Page by page I’ll blaze away,

To ruin my fate, I will like

A mythic demon re-arise— 

Maybe I will have to then

My own writing criticize.

.

I will say, “This ancient text!

Seems stolen from start to end.

I think even I can pen,

Baskets full of such nonsense.”

Other things that I will pen

Thinking now, it causes pain,

For cruelty of my next birth

Now I wish to apologize—

Maybe I will have to then

My own writing criticize.

.

You, who often don’t say things

That I really like to hear.

If you too reincarnate

And as critics reappear—

My own self I will spite,

You will think of how to write

Rubbing pens in your dens

To my protest, fit replies.

Maybe I will have to then

My own writing criticize.

.

I’ll write, “He’s a misfit poet,

Like a heron among the swans!”

You’ll write, “What hateful mind

Lies with such nonchalance!”

I will call you – ignorant,

You will call me – rude and blunt,

Then the things that will be written

By no means will they be nice.

You will write a strong response,

I will strongly criticize.

.

(Translated by Sugata Banerji)

Where are they now?

A man stood at the midpoint of the Ponte Vecchio in Florence on a clear golden summer evening. A crowd had gathered around him to see the sunset, but he had his back to the sun. The beautiful medieval covered bridge was a major tourist attraction in this colorful Italian city full of tourist attractions, and the fact that it offered a magnificent view of the sun setting over the river Arno had pushed the whole crowd to this spot. It was almost 9 o'clock but the crowd was still mostly energetic. This man was holding a guitar, and he was singing into a microphone. He had large speakers next to him which amplified the music and filled the atmosphere with rhythm. Was he a great singer? I wouldn't say so. He was more loud than melodious, his voice more mundane than magical as he reminded everyone to tip him and buy his CDs. But the music that he created is definitely part of my memory of that evening from last June. From his sweaty face to his sinewy hands, everything about him showed that he was hardworking if nothing else, and sincere about his music. I had photographed him and dropped a Euro into his hat, but I had not really expected to remember him a few months later. His music, maybe, because that was an overwhelming part of the scene, but not him as a person.

And yet, I find myself thinking about him for the past few days. Is he still alive, or is he one of the nearly 19,000 people that have died in the Covid-19 pandemic? If he's alive, what is he doing now? He can't sing on the streets anymore, so what does he do for a living? What about the waiter who stood waiting for customers at the Piazza della Signoria in the summer evenings, or the art sellers in Piazza della Repubblica? Where are the musicians who played for the open-air diners at the San Marco Square in Venice, or the sellers of leather goods at the Florence Central Market? I saw an old gentleman in Venice having a morning walk and buying a newspaper from a newsstand. Is he still alive? If he is, he definitely cannot go out for walks anymore, and can he still get his newspapers?

These are questions that keep haunting me and my wife Poulami repeatedly as we look through the photos of our Europe tour from last summer. We had always wanted to tour Europe, and Italy was the brightest jewel in that crown of a tour. We remember Italy as a hot, crowded, colourful country full of loud, cheerful people everywhere eating delicious food in the roadside cafes. A country of bustling marketplaces, busy alleyways, and people standing in queues to eat gelato while the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked pizza wafted through the air. The brightly colored country full of tourists, souvenir sellers and priceless wonders scattered everywhere surely left us impressed and longing for more. My parents had also come from India to accompany us during these ten days of tiring but unforgettable sight-seeing.  

And today, barely eight months later, all of that is gone. It's gone, along with nearly 19,000 people, leaving hundreds of thousands whose lives were changed forever. Of course, everyone in the media is talking about the sufferings of gondoliers, cafe owners, shopkeepers and other faceless people, but it feels particularly bad when one has captured some of their faces. Many of the people in my photos are tourists, and they are unlikely to be there now. But there were others whom we remember vividly, such as the lady who owned the gelateria near our AirBnB in Rome, the young woman who showed us our AirBnB in Venice, and the taxi driver in Rome who magically changed my 50 euro note to a 10 euro note. Maybe we don't remember that last person with a lot of fondness, but we do remember him vividly. It feels very painful to think of that country under lockdown now, with the hospitals overflowing with COVID-19 patients.

Italy is by no means the only country to suffer in this pandemic, and bodies are piling up fast in my favourite city in the US as well. Spain wasn't part of our itinerary last summer, but we traveled through UK, France, Belgium, Netherlands, Switzerland, Greece, Germany, Austria and Greece. All of these countries are affected to various degrees and I really hate to think what this beautiful continent is going through right now. Meanwhile, we haven't left the house for the last three weeks and teaching classes through Zoom seems like the new normal. The world we know has changed - probably forever - and it happened so quickly that everyone seems to be in denial. It is this denial that is exacerbating all this suffering in the US, and I shudder to think what can happen back home in India if things are not handled well.

But this blog post is about Italy and the happy people we met there. I wish I had some way of knowing where they are now, and how they are doing. I also hope they can get back to their normal way of living sometime soon. For an elderly gentleman who has spent all his life taking morning walks and buying newspapers, it would be very sad if he has to spend the last few years of his life deprived of these simple pleasures of his daily routine.

The Laws of Twenty-one

This Bengali nonsense poem by the great Sukumar Ray talks about the strange laws in the imagined country of Lord Shiva. Such laws may or may not resemble real laws in real countries. The laws relate to the number 21 various ways.

Today being the 21st of February, the International Mother Language Day, AND Maha Shivaratri, the annual worship day of Lord Shiva, I couldn't resist the temptation to translate this poem to English from my mother language today.

In the land where Lord Shiva stays,
Terrible laws one must obey!
If someone happens to slip and fall,
A policeman will arrest and haul
To the court, and the judge opines,
He pays twenty-one rupees in fines.

There, before it's evening six
For sneezing you need permits.
Without permit, if a sneeze will come,
Bang! Boom! On your back they drum,
A dose of snuff the Chief applies,
Until you sneeze twenty-one times.

A loose tooth, if someone has,
They must pay four rupees as tax.
If whiskers grow on someone's face,
A hundred annas is their cess.
Poking his back, bending his neck,
Twenty-one salutes they have him make.

While walking, if someone chance
To cast left or right, a sideways glance,
At once to the king this news will rush,
The soldiers all jump and make a fuss,
They make him drink, in the sun at noon,
Water in twenty-one serving spoons.

With poetry, those who fill the pages,
They are caught, and put in cages,
And made to listen, in tunes variable,
Recitations of the multiplication table.
They have to read grocery-store ledgers,
And do additions for twenty-one pages.

If suddenly when the night is deep,
Someone snores while they're in sleep.
On their head they rub with glee,
Cow-dung mixed with apple puree,
Twenty-one times they are spun
And hung for hours twenty-one.

(Translated by Sugata Banerji)

Remembering Dadu

Very old readers of this blog may remember my post on my grandfather's birthday, fourteen years ago. This blog was only a few days old at that time, and I wrote more regularly.

Today is my grandfather's birthday once again. What's more, today is his 100th birth anniversary.

My grandfather, or Dadu, as I called him, was a man of many interests. When he got interested in something, he worked at it until he became an expert. The fact that these interests often had no practical value did not deter him at all. Some of the activities that he tried during his life (other than mathematics) are contract bridge, carrom, aquarium-keeping, candle-making, ink-making, spirograph, carpentry, book-binding, sandpaper-making, homoeopathic and biochemic medicine, and astrology. Most of these were before my time, of course, and so I only know these from stories I have heard since my childhood. I have also seen him making innumerable small tools and gadgets around the house. 

A spirograph design by Dadu

Dadu was a man of discipline. He woke up by 4:00 every morning and walked to the banks of the river Ganga, which is about a kilometre from our house. When heart troubles appeared later in his life, and the doctor advised against brisk walks, he went there by rickshaw. If I was visiting Hooghly at the time, I would accompany him there. The two of us would sit there on a bench and he would tell me stories from the Mythologies, incidents from History, facts from Geography, theories from Physics. He pointed out the Milky Way and talked about astronomy. He talked about old Hollywood movies. He explained to me the difference between the different kinds of boats passing in the still dark river. He recited verses from the Gita and explained their meaning to me. There was hardly a subject on which he couldn't talk. He told me about all these things throughout the day, of course, but during that early morning hour I had his undivided attention. Dadu also had a great collection of books. Most of those books are crumbling and somewhat obsolete now, but I spent hours with those books, looking at pictures and reading up about the world. He also bought many such books for me. I wonder if my daughter will ever develop an interest in those books, or if that interest will even be relevant in the age of the Internet.

A sample of Dadu's english handwriting

Dadu had a great sense of humour. He loved to joke and play pranks on everyone around him. When we lived in Allahabad, I sent a letter to him in Hooghly every week, and he did likewise. These letters were often very odd - I sometimes substituted words with little pictures. Both of us sometimes wrote little riddles that had to be solved to get the full message. He once even wrote a whole letter in heavily sanskritized bengali, describing mundane everyday things in a hilarious manner. Also, his handwriting was amazingly beautiful. Waiting for letters, writing of letters and reading letters is another set of pleasures that our next generation will never know. 

A bengali letter from Dadu (click to enlarge and read)

I could go on writing, but then, this post would never end. So there is no point in going on and on. The only thing that I wish on Dadu's 100th birthday is that I can use at least some of the teaching techniques that I learnt from him to teach my daughter. She wasn't fortunate enough to meet Dadu, but I hope at least she can learn from one of his students.

Fourteen Years

How long is fourteen years?

When I was a child and my mother used to tell me stories from the Ramayana, fourteen years always seemed an interminably long period for an exile. Later, when I read the Mahabharata, I realized that the Pandavas spent about fourteen years in exile as well - twelve years in the forest, one more year anonymously, and then about another year preparing for the battle (which lasted eighteen days). Again, a huge chunk out of the lives of our heroes.

And yet, when I look back at that night fourteen years ago when I started writing my blog, it seems just like yesterday. It will be an exaggeration to call this my "exile", but it does mark my time away from home. First in Hyderabad, then in Kolkata and finally in the suburbs of three cities across the USA - New York City, Washington, D.C. and Chicago.

While it doesn't feel like a lot of time has passed, a lot has changed in these fourteen years. I left my IT job, started and finished a PhD, did a post-doc and then became a professor at a college. I got married. I became a father. And fatter. In the world of social networks, Orkut died off, Facebook came to rule the world. Blogging went out of fashion, microblogging caught the fancy of the world with the introduction of Twitter. Cellphones became smart. Tablets and e-book readers came into existence.

I bought a DSLR. Two DSLRs actually, and started calling myself a photographer.

And in between all this, I started a second blog. In Bengali. While I hardly write in either one anymore, I definitely enjoy writing when I do. Nobody reads my blogs anymore, of course. Nobody reads blogs as much as they used to do fourteen years ago.

Still, it seemed like a nice occasion to commemorate by writing a post here on my first blog. I missed the actual date by a day, but what difference does a day make in fourteen years?