Farewell to Tagore?

I read in the newspaper today (see this and this) that a proposal has been submitted to the NCERT by the Shikhsha Sanskriti Utthyan Nyas, headed by the redoubtable Dinanath Batra of Wendy Doniger fame, that works of Rabindranath Tagore be excised from all school textbooks.

There has been a predictable hue and cry not only from political parties which sit in the opposition in Parliament but also from renowned scholars and savants, such as Shankha Ghosh and Pabitra Sarkar (alas, I shall have to look much more closely over the next few days or weeks to find out if any non-Bengali of note has cared to lodge a protest – Derek O’Brien doesn’t count). Tagore is our national treasure, far above politics, they have said, and such mischievous, petty-minded efforts point to a careful and countrywide effort to close minds and drag us back into a darker age.

Maybe the ruling party will decide that Tagore is too holy a cow to be touched, so nothing will come out of this, for now: after all, they haven’t replaced Gandhi on our currency notes yet. But my take on the issue, even as a Tagore devotee, is rather different from the expected wholehearted support from the saffron brigade or the howls of outrage from the so-called liberal, progressive intelligentsia. Mine is the reaction of a very tired and cynical mind, a mind moulded by teaching language and literature at high school level for half a lifetime. I don’t think it matters any more, one way or the other. Put in Chetan Bhagat and Amish Tripathi and Ravinder Singh in Tagore’s place for all the difference it is likely to make. If my readers disagree with me, please let me know why; then maybe I shall explain or change my position. If there are no responses to this post, or very few, I shall take that as a vindication of my view. 

My God!

Do you notice something truly extraordinary about this photograph taken in my classroom? I did when I walked in. I was so amazed I did a double take, then didn't lose any time to click the scene.

Not one but several 15-year olds were reading big fat books - story books, and that too, believe it or not, not stuff like Chetan Bhagat but the likes of Khaled Hosseini and other authors of a similar level. They were reading books like that on their own, of their own choice, as they waited for the class to begin.

If anyone knows Durgapur and its 'educated' populace, adults wholly included, they would know it is almost as rare a scene as seeing a whole cohort of Olympic gold medallists or Nobel Prize winners walking down one of our streets.

I was charmed, thrilled, delighted. And if I can believe that I have contributed even in a very small way to the making of their tastes, I shall consider myself blessed. It is at rare moments such as this that I can still hope that India has a future, civilisationally speaking. God grant these children long and happy, fruitful lives, and may they keep reading till their dying day.

Mid-monsoon note

Yes, I know it’s been some time since I last wrote, and that is so only partly because I wanted the last post to be on top for a while. Fact is, I have been distracted. I took a break, spent some happy time with my daughter, read some books (the latest Muzaffar Jang mystery thriller, Crimson City, by the way, failed to satisfy – too many loose ends left loose – while Kings of Albion by Julian Rathbone was fun, 15th century Europe seen through Indian eyes, and found wanting in a great many ways; Pankaj Mishra’s The End of Suffering is an interesting and thought-provoking assessment of the Buddha’s relevance in today’s world), and enjoyed watching the Blandings TV series… Lord Emsworth, bless Plum Wodehouse, can bring a dash of good cheer even amidst the worst gloom.  And been attending to chores like filing income tax returns and replacing worn out plumbing. Besides maintaining the daily work routine, of course. More than that I cannot do, with the shadow of death looming over the house.

It’s the height of the monsoon we are going through right now. It rained all night yesterday, and very heavily again this morning [this is being posted two days after writing]. It is still drizzling as I write, and the met. Office says this might continue for a day or two. It’s so dark that I can’t read indoors without switching on the light, and the drains (does anybody have any idea why half-educated Bengalis always refer to them as ‘high’- drains? Is it a confusion with hydrant – a word nobody seems to know? Given that ‘mamlet’ was in such wide circulation till only a few decades ago – a mishmash of marmalade and omelette – I wouldn’t be surprised). I have always loved the rains, of course, but I found out the worst things about them during my Kolkata days and never got over it (now my daughter is doing it, and it’s a very good thing that she does not hate the city as I do, nor has to live in it during its worst days as I did, nor in the worst parts of it, where waterlogging is a recurrent nightmare). I was glad to have come back, and thank my lucky stars that I work from home especially during this part of the year, and that I have so little muck and slush around me and so much of greenery. One of my dearest sensations, ever since I was so high, has been listening to rain as I fall asleep at night, or half waking up in the wee hours to hear the rain pattering outside as I drift off to sleep again. God has been kind.

It just occurred to me that the pujo is only two months away. Christ. How I wish I could run away to someplace quiet and secluded and free of Bengalis during that wretched week – such as to a guest house in a tea garden – and come back only when I can settle into my routine again! If God had granted me a few more wishes, I’d have had rich favourite ex students who had such places to invite me to, rather than modest-income IT workers living in cubbyholes in Bangalore and Gurgaon. Not the latter’s fault, of course, just my bad luck that I couldn’t inspire young people to grow up into fat cats.

I have been writing little travel reviews for tripadvisor for more than a year now (see this), and they tell me that I have got a sizeable number of readers already, including some who write in to say thanks and ask questions about places I have visited. Funny how these things happen. I started off just to oblige some hoteliers whom I had liked. It would be nice if a time comes when they start offering me various concessions at hotels and resorts simply because I have been writing for them. There was an old boy who once told me about his plans to launch just such a travel website and pay me for writing about my sojourns here and there, though nothing came out of it.

I have just begun reading John Keay’s The Great Arc, the fabulous story of how early 19th century British military geographers measured and mapped India (a vast and arduous scientific exploit that puts many of the so-called wonderful achievements of scientists in the last fifty years to shame, though largely forgotten today), and Suketu Mehta’s book about the horror that is Mumbai, Maximum City, on my daughter’s recommendation, though I am not sure whether I can stick it till the last page.

I shall take my leave of you for now, dear reader. Until the next time, which may be when a sudden inspiration strikes me, or when someone has said or asked something which I find interesting enough to reply to.