Tagore's Demon Love - V

 The death of the young daughter-in-law of Bengals's first family threatened to and did in fact draw out tales from the woodwork. The fact the Jyotindranath and Kadambari's marriage was loveless was a known fact. Within Jorasanko, Kadambari was never allowed to forget the fact that she had failed to provide an heir to her husband. Post her death, all of a sudden this angle was elevated to  centre stage, more so as she had adopted a relative's child after more than a decade of childlessness. However the child had died and it was stressed that this had led Kadambari to depression, in addition to Rabi's marriage and her own marital failures. A woman who had overflowed with music and poetry, a lover of nature and flowers had been suddenly cast into the light of a raving manic depressive to explain away her suicide.

 

However, there was another story that circulated like wild fire, but died in the aftermath of Rabindra's ascent as Rabindranth Tagore, the Nobel Laureate, the Shakespearean bard of Bengal and India's first international intellectual mammoth. It was rumoured that Kadambari, who had endured a loveless marriage for more than a decade and had been deemed infertile by the Jorasanko crowd for her childlessness was in fact at the time of her suicide, pregnant. And a scandal of epic proportions and consequences about to erupt such that would besmirch the Tagore name for generations. One can only imagine, the toll such a predicament, even sans the societal consequences would have taken on a long suffering woman. Of course this is all speculation and conjecture until we examine the finer details of the incident that strongly support this theory.

For one, why would the Tagore family in an open case of suicide, suppress all the facts and even record in their ledger that an amount of 52 Rupees was spent to do so ?  And why, in a case of known opium overdose was the coroner's report and the suicide letter destroyed ?  Did both these mandatory documents contain a fact that was deemed so dangerous as to require a blatant suppression of the regular suicide formalities by open bribery  ?   But the annihilation of documents didn't stop there. Kadambari's journals, her own written poetry and  countless books were destroyed. Even today her room in Jorasanko is an attic closed to the public whereas the rest is open to tourists. Why single out a family member for such open venomous disdain ? More so one whom the most prodigal son constantly continued to credit his work to ?

Again, the above arguments remain in the realm of speculation. Until we turn to Bhanu Simha, Rabindra himself for answers. If we are to move logically in the light of Rahur Prem and his constant dedications of his work to Lady He - it is most logical to assume that Rabindra would have hinted at such a powerful fact of his relationship through his work ?

Indeed, he did.

In one of his novels Jogajog, the lead heroine by the name of Kumudini is a passionate woman, trapped by pregnancy, torn in a conflict between love and social honor. Not only is the name Kumudini eerily similar to Kadambari, BOTH these Hindi names mean White Lotus and imply the goddess Saraswati ! 

But let's go back to 1884. Post Kadambari's death Rabindra himself slipped into suicidal depression and took 3 years to recover. His own words express his turmoil ...

""That there could be any gap in the unbroken procession of the joys and sorrows of life was a thing I had no idea of. I could therefore see nothing beyond, and this life I had accepted as all in all. When of a sudden death came and in a moment made a gaping rent in its smooth-seeming fabric, I was utterly bewildered. All around, the trees, the soil, the water, the sun, the moon, the stars, remained as immovably true as before; and yet the person who was as truly there, who, through a thousand points of contact with life, mind, and heart, was ever so much more true for me, had vanished in a moment like a dream. What perplexing self-contradiction it all seemed to me as I looked around! How was I ever to reconcile that which remained with that which had gone?

The terrible darkness which was disclosed to me through this rent, continued to attract me night and day as time went on. I would ever and anon return to take my stand there and gaze upon it, wondering what there was left in place of what had gone. Emptiness is a thing man cannot bring himself to believe in; that which is not, is untrue; that which is untrue, is not. So our efforts to find something, where we see nothing, are unceasing.  ""

In fact this emptiness would be his lifelong friend, erupting as bouts of depression that would be accompanied by feverish creative output. The Rahur Prem that had erupted in his heart and found expression in the form of Kadambari now turned inward and become both his demon and his drive.For if there was one thing, that he knew that would please the living and the dead Kadambari it was the Word, in verse or prose. The innumerable heroines  who dominate his stories and novels are all blatant doppelgangers of Kadambari. They, very often are socially isolated, unloved by their husbands, childless and deemed sexually dangerous by their families and society.  As if Rabindra was trying, feverishly to exorcise the woman who ceasing to be a human had come to possess him through his obsessive love for her.

Even in his seventies, Rabindra admitted to artist Nandalal Bose that Kadambari's eyes lay behind the hundreds of haunting portraits of women he painted in old age.  Sigmund Freud himself was invited  to look into his obsessive compulsions with his muse. His dreams and nightmares were an unchanging landscape where Kadambari continued to engulf him as Rahu. And if you still have any more doubts examine these paintings  by Rabindra in  sequence.

 

Perhaps there is little that is as precious or as poisonous as the obsessive love that can erupt as a flame in a man's heart when his soul is so touched by a woman. That Tagore loved, lost and carried the cross for life is one of those bittersweet ironies. Because if this tragic tale of love and loss hadn't played out we wouldn't have the thousands of priceless poems, songs, stories, novels and sketches.

Tis better to have loved and lost. Than to never have loved at all ......

Tagore's Demon Love - IV

Maharishi Tagore, beloved spiritual leader for the time aspired that Rabi be the first barrister in the family and soon he was dispatched to England.  Here Tagore's eldest sister-in-law and his niece and nephew who were close to him in age, were sent to live with him and keep him company - an uncharacteristic move considering the same thoughtfulness had been absent for most of his childhood. Perhaps to ensure that he didn't leave school out of home-sickness. Or possibly, the family  had awakened to his extraordinary bond with Kadambari and wanted to ensure he didn't run back to her and resume a path that would lead to the unthinkable. Nevertheless,  after reading briefly at University college Tagore left school yet again for an independent study. He returned in 1880 without the degree his father had hoped, but resolute in his ambition to blend European novelty with Brahmo customs. He moved in with his elder brother and Kadambari yet again.


There is no information on his activities in the three years spanning his return to Kolkata in 1880 until 1883. That is the year when things finally came to a steam. The calculated silence of the Tagore family and the absence of data seem to indicate that the three years following his disappointing return sans education were one during something so powerful had happened as to warrant a blackout. All we know is that in 1883, one fine day the Maharishi summoned Tagore to see him in Shimla. No one knows what happened but a few days later Rabi was married to a hastily procured bride, a child of one of their estate hands. An illiterate, uncultured 10 year old who was dispatched to a Loreto convent immediately for education.

Two months following this hasty marriage Rabindra published his next collection of poems and songs under the title " Chabi O Gaan " . As in the past and as would be in the future, this book was also dedicated to Lady He. What Kadambari felt about his marriage is unclear. Some say that she herself was involved in the selection of Bhabatarini, hoping that a thin, unattractive girl would be rejected by Rabi but was taken aback by his acceptance and had spiralled into depression. Some say she was the one person in the Tagore Manor who was uninterested in seeing him get married or being of aid in the matter. But all the above are mere speculations and fade in the light of a poem that was included in Rabi's first book post  marriage.


Rahur Prem.


Rahu, in Hindu mythology is the name of the demon who swallows the moon as eclipse through his shadow. Ponder, if you will the lyrics of this poem ....


"I am your companion from the beginning of time, for I am your own shadow. 
In your laughter, in your tears, you shall sense my dark self hovering near you, now in front, now behind.
 At the dead of night when you are lonely and dejected, you’ll be startled to find how near I am seated by you, gazing into your face


Wherever you turn, you will see me. My shadow will taper off to the sky but it will enshroud the whole world. 
My miserable voice and sinister smile will resound in all directions because I am the hunger never appeased, the thirst never quenched.
 I am always there, a dagger in your breast, a poison in your mind, a disease in your body.


Just as the night comes at the end of the day, I am behind you and that is your destiny".
("Rahu"s love).


Imagine, if you will, a woman trapped in a loveless, childless marriage, perhaps broken hearted at the marriage of her childhood lover. Imagine her inner turbulence caused by a dilemma of the highest moral order, her increasingly feeble attempts at propriety. Her  self-denial and helplessness in  fighting off the passion of her childhood playmate, friend and soul mate.


 Then imagine, this woman reading the verse above.


For the first time in the history of poetry, a bard had compared the all-consuming obsessive love that blossoms between two souls with the consumption of the beautiful, virginal moon by the shadow of the eclipse, the demon Rahu. Here, unlike his earlier romantic works there was no talk of sentiments. Rahu's love is not the platonic love of friends or playmates.


Rahu's Love is the insatiable hunger of frustrated desire, pursuing the object of it's passion ,as dark as his own shadow self. The imagery that Rabindra used in this poem was not only crude and sordid, it was blatant to the point of mockery. Whether directed at his father and family or at Kadambari herself we will never know. But we have to be blind to not know that the poem was a counter assault in response to his forced marriage and separation from his beloved.


Through this poem Rabi the boy was asserting the end of his boyhood romanticism and tenderness that marked his poems. Gone was the shy boy whose poems spoke of platonic and universal love. Rahu's love, his declaration of his inner self was his war cry. Rahu's love, declares that it is the love that is all consuming, devoid of discipline and kindness towards the moon, the object of passion.  He declares that he will hang about her, his dark love a knot that will never be untied, his ruthless desire to consume her again and again in his shadow will be an iron chain fastened to her feet. Whether she likes him or not, there is no escape for her, for his shadow is her fate, her companion and soul mate since the beginning of time.


Hekate, the moon goddess however would have the last say over the love of the Demon, she wouldn't be the prisoner of his desire. She would change her fate. She would end her inner conflict between love and family honour on her own terms, leaving Rahu, Bhanu Simha, Rabi and Ravindra, all composites of her  soulmate in an agony worse than death.







Two months after the publication of Rahur Prem, Jorasanko manor was shaken to it's core when it's young, beautiful 25 year old daughter-in-law took her own life through an opium overdose and Rabindra's criticism of his family business as Death Trade became the greatest irony of his life.

Tagore's Demon Love - III

She quickly became his first and only childhood playmate. And if you believe in coincidences it was at this point that Tagore's first poem was written. Nevertheless, his abstinence from schooling and determined avoidance of  education remained unchanged. With death of his mother at 13, his playmate graduated to the responsibility of being little Rabi's caretaker. She would cook tasty dishes for him. Most of all her aplomb in handling this problem child is revealed by her one move that Rabi would recollect for years. She loved books, both prose and poetry and every time she procured a new one she would send for the maverick who hated school books to read one to her while she fanned herself.


Tagore recollects   "  No electric fans were available that time. While I was reading aloud, I was tickled by the soft swish of wind coming from my sister-in-law's fan.


The touch of the wind on my face had an extraordinary aroma". 

One of his innumerable sketches of women include this moment, such was the effect on him, decades later.
Such was her expertise in handling him with affection as well as her subtle manipulation in keeping him in check. " Neither your looks nor your poetry impress me." was her disdainful retort if ever he seemed arrogant or precocious.


  Rabi, after the death of his mother was now nurtured by the affection of this playmate and friend with whom he shared so many passions. As like him, Kadambari loved nature and birds, even turning the terrace into a beautiful garden. She was a voracious reader and she and Rabi spent many an hour nose deep in literature, poetry and music. She was the first to read his poems and dispelled his shyness in sharing his poetry. But as is the case with any two souls who share such levels of intimacy over the years, their relationship, as their adolescence progressed was evolving into an alchemical resonance. 


Rabi now started calling her He, for Hekate, the primordial Graeco-Roman goddess of the Moon, the goddess who held dominion over all things feminine and yin. Even to the novice this nomenclature of his friend reveals the metamorphosis of a platonic equation - when one considers that Ravindra's own name means, literally, Sun-God !!!. 


And Kadambari herself started calling him by the name Bhanu-Simha ( Sun-Lion). This was the name under which Tagore published his first book of poems in 1877  at the age of 16 rather than his own given name. And the dedication of the book , translated from Bengali reads ...


" For Lady He "

Was the metamorphosis of this erstwhile trouble maker who had escaped school after prestigious school rooted in his desire to please the one woman, the one soul who had cared for him and showered her nurturing and affection ? For if there was one thing Bhanu knew that pleased Hekate, it was the Word, prose or poem, followed by song and music. In fact his first poem that he showed Kadambari, shyly, celebrated the love between Radha and Krishna and it was she who goaded him to explore and display his talent.


Platonic yet precariously perched on the line of propriety, morality and societal norms, their bond was starting to attract attention within the Jorasanko crowd. Those who had never really cared or paid attention to this immensely gifted child subject to bullying by servants, friendless, trapped in a palace,  now became aware of him. Thanks to a child bride who had helped him blossom by being his playmate, friend, sister and mother, who was ignored all this while but now because of their chemistry was attracting attention and criticism. Rabi's escape from a prestigious European college and back into Kadambari's company was nothing but a prelude to an explosion waiting to happen. 

Tagore's Demon Love Part II

The name Tagore is synonymous with creativity infused with unnatural contemplation. It is also synonymous with the Word, prose,poem or song - for all Bengalis and the average cultured Indian. Few can hope to parallel Rabindranath's output and stature, his status as a polymoth through his work and his background as one of the Brahmo Samaj royalty shaped much of educated Indian thought in his age. To think that such a literary genius despised schooling and the mechanical assembly process that passes for education !

Born to a family of untold riches and unsurpassed intellectual genius, the young Rabi's grandfather, Prince Dwarkanath Tagore was a trader of opium and dined with Victorian royalty, amongst the first Indians to travel Europe.  Ravindra called their family business " Death Trade " - an irony that will be revealed by this series.His own father, inheritor of this fiefdom chose to follow his spiritual calling and founded the Brahmo Samaj, an institution  that was an instrument of intellectual, moral and spiritual Renaissance for the contemporary Bengal. He was called Maharishi by the populace, such was his zeal and he retired to the Himalayas for months at a time.  Father to 13 children, of whom many turned to literature and the arts and became pioneers, he begot Ravindra as his youngest son. Their home was a lavish manor called Jorasanko, a staggeringly expansive collection of wings and mansions that housed the large Tagore joint family, it was their own version of the Buckingham palace and they the undisputed first family of Bengal.

Surrounded by poverty and prostitution, the neighbourhood was not something a child was allowed to venture and least of all have friends to play with. On the other hand, the age gap between him and his siblings was too disparate. The young Rabi, was a prince trapped in a bubble, with no child to play within Jorasanko. Schools were chosen for him and he escaped all of them successfully, his aversion to mechanical education was even pronounced at that young age. Reacting to his stifling home environment and lack of a real childhood he was bullied by the servants and would later acidly term that phase " Servocracy". His head would be dunked in water to discipline him and he would be confined to chalk circles. One can almost laugh out loud at the thought of this  paragon of learning being such a handful and  relegated like Sita to a line he wasn't to cross.

But his life changed irrevocably when the 9 year old bride of his older brother entered Jorasanko as the latest daughter-in-law and his sister- in-law.






Kadambari.


The White Lotus, synonymous with the Hindu goddess of knowledge, music and the fine arts.

Tagore's Demon Love

As I grew up reading his poems and soaking in his effulgence, even in that pre-adolescent phase the undertones of disappointment in his poems never escaped me. Tagore's love poems, under layers of romance,passion and erotic drama almost always have an undercurrent of regret, disappointment and sadness. 
Sample the lines ...
..... How can the body touch the flower that only the spirit may touch ?
......Free me from the bonds of your sweetness, my love! ... Free me from your spells, and give me back my manhood to offer you my  freed heart ...


In more than a few thousand poems, stories and songs that explore the intricate dynamics between lovers, Tagore's always seemed to return time and time again to explore the deathly bondage that hides in erotic attachments and the spiritual tests that can wreak havoc on mere mortals in the garb of the sweetest, most innocent romance. As it is with bards, writers and geniuses of all shapes and forms, this strain of sorrow seemed somehow to form the crux of this artist who won us a Nobel and inspired doppelgangers in Latin America and Spain and possibly many other places.


It was my trip to Shantiniketan that finally once and for all laid bare the mystery shrouding my beloved bard. 


A poem next to the portrait of a  beautiful women, full of love,hope and goodness - in short an exception.

I have made you the pole star of my life,
I shall never lose my way in this sea.


Wherever I go,You always shine in my view
And shed light from your anxious eyes.


Secretly in my mind,Your image is always alive 
I lose my mind,When I lose your sight.


When my heart wants to stray,Along a wrong way
Your remembrance fills it with shame.


The first reading of this unfamiliar verse filled me with the lightness of spring and I hungrily devoured the portrait and the eulogy next to it.  


Kadambari Tagore, Muse and Mentor. Sister-in-law.


I couldn't wait to unravel this puzzle .... To think it was this woman, who Tagore declared his muse and the force behind his work, thus implying her hand in the undercurrent of the frustrated, melancholic and dark erotica behind his life's work. A huge portion of it, at least.


A mystery I unravelled in the days to come, through research, discussions and reasoning so as to arrive at a coherent if closely speculative simulation and understanding of this enigma..... 

Adventures of a Single,Female Backpacker - VII

Shantiniketan Calling




I remember I was a 10 year old when I first found out there was a school where classes were conducted under the shade of margosa trees, the names of flowers were learnt from observation rather than rote, children were taught to sing as the birds that surrounded them and competition was an absent entity. I begged,pleaded and whined to no avail. My parents couldn't bear the thought of sending away their only daughter to a school on the opposite end of the nation. In a village nonetheless. My father was unamused.  Ambitious parents dreamt of an American or British education for their budding prodigies and here I was begging to be educated under a tree in a village.

Flash forward to 2012. I am walking towards the gates that contain the life I so longingly begged for, the masterpiece of my most admired cultural polymoth. Tagore's undying legacy in the form of an educational institution coloured in his vision and sensibility even to this day. I could only watch the goings on of the school from outside as is policy. A bunch of third graders were frolicking around a tree between classes. Another group under another tree had a music class while a third was studiously nodding at a blackboard I couldn't read. All the while the contrast between the sterile,walled education I endured and this free, liberated and human environment was glaring me in the face. 


Tagore was an anti-traditionalism, anti-structure rebel much unlike his paternal visage and cultural role. He despised classical structures and anything that stood in the way of universal humanism  aspiring to blend the best of the East and West thanks to his brief stint at a British educational institution . Be it a stifling classroom that  functioned like an assembly line or an educational system that was founded on conformity. His own college education was a single day at the Presidency College which was his last. I can only imagine him walking out it's gates fuming and defiantly decided as to his course of action.

 As I walk past the breathtaking mural work that adorns the many buildings of his Art Institute Kala Bhavan I can visualise his satisfied profile. Students cycle past me in traditional Bengali garb around a university that had churned out many of our nation's most prolific artists and thinkers. There is no sound of the bell signalling the clockwork of a routine in action. Many are gathered under trees in like minded groups discussing things that I in Mumbai never had time or space for and neither did my friends. Once again, confronted by moments and experiences that were stolen from me ....

Adventures of a Single, Female Backpacker - VI

My time in Bolpur, home to the legendary Shantiniketan was spent like an idyllic hour at an opera. Thanks to the efforts of my friend I had procured a room, nay a cottage on the bank of a lake with a deer park on the other shore. Nirvana !!!

My journey in a passenger local was an exciting ride, the sights and smells of an India that is missing from our cities. I spent 3 hours savouring local delicacies courtesy the vendors and downing cups of lemon tea that is the local speciality. By the time I landed in Bolpur and my forest getaway I was well and truly disconnected from ... well ... everything. Bolpur, timeless and ethereal has a charm that eludes our travels to places like Dubai and Bangkok. As if the view of the lake was not seductive enough, morning brought with it a species of Siberian birds, gracefully feeding on the fish and resuming a nirvanic asana on lotus stalks post feeding. I was watching the whole exercise open mouthed while my morning coffee lying untouched.


My lunch at a roadside eatery was the condition on which my trip was planned by my friend. There was a list of eateries to visit and a list of items to try. My meal on a leaf, rice with vegetables and a cold sprite was .... surreally simple yet divine. Of course as a Mumbaikar my tryst with street food can fill pages. But this was different. I was not grabbing a bite to rush off somewhere. I felt like I had come from nowhere and had nowhere to go. Then came my trip around the Shantiniketan grounds.


Bari after beautiful bari .... divinely simple sculptures by legendary artists, artifacts and relics from Tagore's life ..all added up to an afternoon I will never forget. Most stirring of all was to read the poem that Tagore dedicated to his muse, the love of his life Kadambari ... his pole star and light. Their tragic romance will be, has to be discussed for it's sheer prosaic drama and tragedy. All of which added up in creating the Tagore  we all grew to love and admire. The genius who won the hearts of many around the world had his own broken into pieces. But then, if it weren't for tragedy where would all the great artists be ?


 A collection of Shantiniketan images ...

Who moved my trees II ?

Take a look at the almost - Kwoi pond and guess where could I be ?


Obviously following from the last post you will guess it's yet another nook of my green,so green neighborhood.


No.


Look at the pics below and guess again.

After the neighborhood, it's time to see what a normal college in Kolkata looks like. Actually, that's not entirely accurate. Anyone who has been to Varanasi and taken the long, really long walk around the BHU campus knows what I am talking about. Fellow Podarites and sundry Mumbaikars. Colleges around the world are not always buildings with classrooms where bored students and their boring teachers saunter in and out of. Labs and libraries aren't always rooms and a garden is not a 10 feet by 25 feet plot with ugly grass and weeds interspersed with the odd flowers.If you look through colleges like the ones in the U.S. or Europe, the average college campus is the size of a small town, students cycle a kilometer to class, each subject has it's own building and group study does not mean greasy meals in the canteen but a group of students huddled together chewing on their pens in the shade of sturdy trees and well manicured gardens. Even at Benares Hindu University I was left with my jaw hanging at the well planned campus layout, the beautiful lawns and almost Boston-esque feel. 


I felt betrayed and cheated.


A die-hard romantic-quasi nature lover and pseudo intellectual, I would have died for a college experience that dripped the romance of cycling across campus, studying in the company of rose bushes and ogling crushes from behind the secure cover of trees. But just like our neighborhoods, our colleges are a real estate conspiracy. Even the older ones that could have demanded more land from the government settled for a hasty pudding because quite frankly if our homes aren't green why should our colleges be ? Why not allot the space to real estate developers who can actually squeeze every paisa's worth from every cubic millimeter. Why shoulder costs of scenic beauty and tranquility for a bunch of students ?


I pinched myself for the 10 th time as I sat strumming my Spanish Guitar under a tree next to a lotus  pond. I was let in the sprawling university campus adorned with graffiti, not so much as an ID check even as I clicked away to my hearts content. There were buildings for the Arts, Commerce and Science streams. And then when I came to the building that housed the Heat and Power Lab I felt like I had been slapped across my face. A building for experiments in heat and power, in the middle of prime South Kolkata property.


Friends, our government has made fools out of us, they have taken our basic rights and made a mockery of town and infrastructure planning. I doubt I will ever be able to look at our skyline with the same fondness now that I know I have been cheated out of simple natural beauty and space. 


Meanwhile,  I am waiting for Aamir to bring up this elephant of a fraud involving deep pockets and political mafia on his show. 


But I know the wait could be forever ......

Who moved my trees ?

Have a look at the scene above and guess where I could be ? Sample the ones below if you need more help. 


















..... Keep going at it .... No, not a hill station..... no, not a resort .... ........ Darjeeling ? Not yet, probably next month. ..... Keep going ....








This ladies and gentlemen is my .... neighborhood.













Yes, green, very green, highly oxygenated, bustling with the sounds of more than 200 bird species, my  strictly middle class neighbourhood. Lake Gardens. A planned development in the heart of South Kolkata . And literally that is what we have, two lakes and a whole lot of gardens, trees with varied colourful flowers on them that scent my morning walk. Lakes where birds take their early morning dips and meals, a rowing club where you can learn to row crew and solo...... All this at middle class property rates with a 5 minute walk to bus stops and metro stations. How did I get so lucky !!!




My fellow Mumbaiites - savour the flavour of our defrauded, oxygen deprived lives. Our land sharks and politicos have made sure we have a single row of ugly trees and plants on our roads and neighbourhoods, every other centimetre  of space is devoured to make ridiculously expensive apartments and complexes. Half the real estate in Central Mumbai is lying vacant. Our Mithi is a joke of a ecological blunder. The space these land grabbers can spare is allotted to our ugly, filthy slums a.k.a vote banks. Us, tax-paying, responsible citizens, we get a concrete jungle that we are expected to think is a thing of beauty.


 We take shallow breaths and spend the mornings in bed when we could have been strolling through gardens flushing ourselves with freshly squeezed morning oxygen.No, thats what we get when we make expensive trips to hill stations or Kerala, our cheeks flush with the pink of our deep, oxygenated breaths and we feel ... alive. That's what fresh air, low on carbon dioxide and carbon monoxide and flush with oxygen does for us. 


Only we pay a premium price for what is our right. 

Dear Kar - kam - Bol - Zyaada - NAAA

Dear Kareena, 


Please let us girls decide on our own whether we are confident with our curves, plumpiness or fattiness  and let our men decide WHAT they find sexy . Please stop being an insecure schizoid and pulling Vidya Balan down because she makes you look like a foolish stick insect. Not every women thinks confidence and success follows  skeletalism whether we are actresses or not.


We do however understand your frustration at Vidya's small budget films making more than the cost of your big - budget flops, I mean that must really hurt. And unlike you she has no Khandaan to brag, brawl and boast about in her interviews. Humble beginnings, struggle, stupendous success with a .... GASP, normal sized Indian body !!!!


And NO, you are not our role model for diet and fitness or body image even though you pay your PR to declare you as such on front page tabloids. We will decide for ourselves if we would rather be curvy, sexy, successful like Vidya doing what we believe in,  or skeletal, insecure and average, working for money and glamour, playing dumb bimbos to macho heroes. 


Yours Truly,


Not thin, not fat, just NORMAL . 

Confessions of a Single, Female Backpacker - V

Well, my plan to wake up for the 4 a.m. darshan of Ma Dakshina Kali didn't materialise. As it is with such places, I slept like an infant and at 5:30 a.m. forced myself to awake so I could be in time for the 6 a.m. darshan. Trudging sleepily down the guest house lobby, I ran into a family headed to the temple and ganged up with them. Being long time Bengali devotees of the temple they told me awe- inspiring stories of how the 2000 strong crowd I saw the day before was actually because of the heatwave. It would have been easily twice that being the weekend. Why, just last December they remember standing in line behind 25000 in the shivering winter morning. Was I grateful to have missed that one !


We purchased white gallons to fill with water from the Ganga and made our way to the ghats.

It was a moment of moments. Beginning last January I had been summoned by some mysterious force to every significant Ganga Ghat .Hrishikesh, Varanasi and now as it makes it's way to the ocean, at Dakshineshwar. That familiar sight of pre-morning rituals on the ghat, families bathing and praying, filling white gallons of the holy water to take home ... I hope to decode the design behind this someday. As I took the 3 customary dips in the freezing January winter at Varanasi, it was half-belief and half- curiosity at exploring this ancient ritual.  Then in the even more freezing November waters at Hrishikesh it was perhaps 3 quarters belief and a quarter of doubt at this coincidence. Now as I took my 3 dips, the magic of Bengal worked it's way, coursing through my nerves, deleting all that is contrary to belief. Belief in the Source. There could be more that has happened, time will tell. 


I made my way to each Siva Temple, representative of all the jyotirlings and poured the water I had collected on each and every one of them. Along with many others chanting, singing devotees, an experience like no other. Outside on the sprawling courtyard a group of devotees had gotten hold of drums and broke into an impromptu song and dance performance that was mesmerising to watch. Their intonations of ancient mantras through song was a first. And like the evening before I let go of all my inhibitions and joined this group of men and women, adults, dancing and prancing like children. I broke out of the group to stand behind line for a darshan of Kali.


If the persona of Ramakrishna Paramahamsa , his message of love, peace and harmony does not clear your misconceptions of the reality behind Kali's fear inducing exterior - nothing else will. As the cosmic principle of Time, Death and Destruction Kali offers the seeds of regeneration and rebirth. Like a mother, Time is the womb of the Source through which all things are born, Kali being Time is the mother who offers new life. And mothers, are always of love. Through her seer Ramakrishna and his protegee Vivekananda, Dakshina Kali unleashed a new age of awakening. Ramakrishna  was followed by a dozen Bengali New Age Gurus who spread the message of Self and God Realisation throughout the world irrespective of religion, race and creed. From Tagore, Ram Mohun Roy to Paramahamsa Yogananda and Anandamayee Ma.


This is the gift of Dakshina Kali, Ramakrishna and Bengal to the citizens of the world.


A new beginning into the light. 

Confessions of a Single, Female Backpacker - IV

From the first moment that my stay in Kolkata was finalised I knew that a visit to Dakshineshwar was more imperative than anything else. Ramkrishna Paramahamsa, a seer for our age, as powerful a Tantric as he was simple and unassuming, Swami Vivekananda's master - his was the energy pulling me to the temple he had so lovingly and passionately tended to. To meditate in the force field created by his austere presence was a treat I wasn't willing to miss, come what may. Situated on the banks of the Hooghly, a tributory of the Ganga, the temple houses the famous deity worshipped by Paramahamsa, Ma Dakshina Kaali. So known because the Ganga flows towards the Dakshin (South). The main Kali temple is flanked by a Radhe-Krishna temple with 12 Jyotirlings - small Siva temples right adjacent to the banks of the river. You can read in detail about the background and architecture of this utopian shrine here.

The sweltering heatwave held me back for two whole weeks until I snapped and filled my backpack with a sari and overnight essentials.As with all such sojourns I make, it took a full 5 minutes to plan, decide and pack. My landlady was horrified that I was intending to leave in the evening and spend the night. I wanted to attend the morning 4:30 darshan at Dakshineshwar replete with a dip in my Ganga. I was sternly instructed to call as soon as I arrived and got myself a room. Rather than take a bus or a local train I decided to take the metro and then proceed by bus. Okay, fine, not so much bus as much HEAVING, MECHANICAL MONSTER. Add to that you have passengers hanging on to the fixtures for dear life, inhaling what everyone else is exhaling while the sun has turned the heaving monster into a fiery furnace. All in all, as genuinely exerting  a pilgrimage as Vaishnodevi.

You realise how little has changed in the past couple of centuries when you walk the cobbled, dusty path that leads to the massive temple complex. Stalls upon stalls of kitschy knick knacks, hot loochis, puja items .... as with any other temple exterior it's a riot of action. I found myself a guest house aptly titled .. what else, The Holy Nest. No kidding ! I left my backpack and headed for the evening gathering. Ramakrishna's own private chambers and meditation room have been kept intact and every evening a group of devotees render the most beautiful bengali songs that will stir your heart and soul. I couldn't move a muscle until they stopped singing and one by one we entered the room and knelt beside the bed of the sage. His presence, tangible and uplifting is an inseparable component of  the air of the entire complex, every nook and corner. Once inside the massive complex, be forewarned. This is Bengal, present day home of devotion and devotees. Crowds of anywhere around 3000 waiting in a line for a darshan of the Goddess is routine. I thanked my good sense that I had chosen to stay overnight, surely the pre - dawn darshan would see lesser numbers. Right next to the main Dakshina Kali temple was a small canopy structure, host to the evening's sankirtan. Another ethereal experience, these seem to come by the dozen if you so choose.

I am yet to see such passionate displays of communion in Mumbai. Don't get me wrong. Our chowkis cum kitty parties, loud speakers blaring at Ganeshotsav with the carnival like finale and the like can't hold a candle to what I  see consistently as I travel across Bengal. I was huddled in a corner, supported by a stone pillar, sobbing with joy, as were many others. Unashamedly, feeling the mirth of divine communion with complete strangers. How many times have you seen that as you stand in those atrociously long queues outside Siddhivinayak and Mahalakshmi. It's almost as if we in Mumbai have specific 5 point agendas when we visit our shrines, not to meet and greet the deities but to network with cosmic authority figures who can swing things in our favour. Of course I am generalizing here but as I see the average bengali around me overflow with love and ecstasy at every shrine I visit, the reality of devotion, devotees  and deities in Mumbai seems almost comically depressing. We have turned our deities into celebrities with more security than your average M.L.A., more crowded frenzy on weekends than the average blockbuster and more devotee turnout than voters at your average election. Where is that personal touch, that sentimental relationship with the seers and deities that is the hallmark in Kolkata. With these thoughts I went off to sleep early for my  4 a.m. dip in the Ganga ....

To be Continued.

Who ordered these .... Child Brides - II

I remember my panic when I first faced my batch of pre-adolescents at a foundation that was working with slum children. I remember my palpitating self-confidence at the thought of having to teach such gangly and tender looking children meditation and pranayama. Being impoverished, the girls who were 13 looked around 9 to me and the fact that they weren't as worldly as the children we meet who are obviously from a more privileged class and exposed to the extra - curricular world. These children hadn't had exposure to the thinkers of our age, to internet and newspapers. They were, however, irascibly street smart, picking up the concepts I taught them with the zeal of someone who  knows what a benefit self-development is.



One of these sessions finally decoded that wistful gaze I was subjected to by the girls. One of them said to me that her mother was discouraging her from putting her heart into education because all she would do later would be to get married. Soon. The girl I thought looked 10 and too young to meditate was talking marriage and babies with the rationale of a woman in her 20's. If there is a more chilling face-off with the reality of our nation consider me off the list. I can do without such a slap-on-the-face moments when the sheer craziness of how privileged we are as a result of the coincidence of our birth to educated, middle- class parents is rubbed on our faces.


I brushed aside the stinging feeling at the base of my neck and proceeded with a dismissive smile. I joked that she could tell her mother that if she were educated they would find an educated groom for her. I quickly forgot the incident until this week when I attended the annual summer camp organised by the foundation for these students. Dance, drama, music, painting and science exhibitions that displayed their progress to the trustees and promoters of the foundation. I was blown by the dance performances and the science exhibits. But what rocked me to my core was the play put together by the girls. Aged 8 to 13. A play on child marriage.


Evidently, a cathartic release for them. The concept, script and dialogues were all developed by the girls themselves. The acting and execution were brilliant and were I allowed I would post the video here. Their passionate bows at the applause clearly conveyed how deeply moving a release it was for them. They are all living in the shadow of fear - a marriage that might be arranged any day in their teens and take them away from home and school to another slum or village. A discussion by the panel of staff that deliberated with the principal of the children's schools quickly narrated the rest of the tale.


Whereas the children all excelled in the walls of the foundation, their studies and extra-curriculars didn't follow up within their homes. Irrespective of gender their parents were indifferent to the improvement in their grades, their ambitions to be more than their humble beginnings. Obviously, these parents didn't want their children to be too good for themselves. To be alienated from your own child is something no parent wants. But here, particularly the girls were being aggressively pulled down. Their parents let them indulge in the activities conducted at the foundation, they might even enjoy the gifts the girls bring home for having excelled in their choice of activity. But an improvement in grades is perceived as a threat. And attempts are made to neutralise the flowering of their child's personality.


Here in a nutshell is our predicament. Even when resources are available to children who have what it takes to move out of the slums, the parents and family pull the child back. The girls, more aggressively are emotionally blackmailed. Their mothers allege that by stressing for an education they are implying their own mothers are inferior. The girl is torn between a world she longs to be a part of, and parents who pull her back through the dynamics of covert control and manipulation. Which daughter wants her parents to be alienated or her family to allege she is breaking out of their circle. By speaking a different language, by knowing what a computer is and by making choices that put power in her hands, she is rubbing their inferiority in their faces, and no child wants to do that. 


So the girls hide their real value from themselves and their parents. Hide their dreams and longingly gaze at me and the employees at the foundation like they were looking through the glass of a candy-shop.

Confessions of a Single, Female Backpacker- III

It was an impromptu trip, one I made on a lark. I had 3 days to kill with the Kolkata heatwave was driving me crazy and unfortunate others in the hospital. My landlady, who by now understands she has a maverick on her hands, albeit one with spiritual inclinations suggested I will like going down to Mayapur. Her own trip down there had been fantastic and she recommended good,old Iskcon. A quick browse over their site told me they offered everything. From buses that ply down to Mayapur to a range of accommodation options on their large community. One could book a seat on an A.C. bus and an A.C. room in their dormitories and let Iskcon arrange a tour for them around the Nabadwip-Mayapur region.


In ten minutes I was on my way to the office to get my things sorted out. I booked myself on a regular bus and got myself a kutir ... straw hut accommodation for a spanking Rs. 100 per night !!! And all this on a last minute. Thank god for the killer heatwave that led to cancellations ! True to the plan I was on the bus to Mayapur at 5:30 a.m. We passed villages and farms, all lush green and forgot that we were leaving behind a concrete jungle that was sweltering behind. Once you step into rural India time stands still for you. Once you see farmers toiling away in their fields and women hauling water pots, all your own problems and whims melt away. You come alive to life in a way that is not possible in the city. Your frazzled mind is soothed by the reality of simple living. 


After 4 hours on the road we landed at the Iskcon campus. My room - kutir was modest. But I found myself alone in a 4 bed shared room because of the heatwave. Set amidst lavishly greem farmland and huge trees with diverse bird species all chirping away. I had come to a different planet altogether. Next door was a goshala, an international school for Iskcon devotees children, an ashram for the renunciates ..... A whole different planet, seemingly calmer and serene. I didn't see a frown in the 3 days I was there. My landlady insisted I don't miss the morning arati and I didn't. Only ... for a city gal walking through grass and trees at the devilish hour of 4:30 a.m. was no mean feat. I deserve an award for sheer bravado, the spooky night orchestra comprising an assortment of insects and birds notwithstanding I made it in the pitch dark to the temple precinct. Only to find countless devotees from nearby villages having done the same, only they had to traverse wild farm land in the dark.


There is a reason why communal singing is such a big part of many cultures and beliefs. It is an experience I can't put in words. Experience it yourself at your nearest Iskcon or any other communal devotional event to know for yourself. You will begin to understand there is an unknown world out there. One in places like Nadia, Vrindavan, Benares, Ajmer and the like. Where communal experiences induce feelings you can't quite put the slot on. When you take the barge and venture to Nabadwip, you see devotees kissing the places saints have hallowed down the ages. Scooping the dust from their feet and anointing themselves with it. You will learn a new kind of humility. One where your imperative to rationalise will be subjugated to instinctive emotionalism. And crack by crack your well built armour of rational emotionalism will break. You emerge a new image of yourself, freer and lighter by the tonne. Where beliefs are just that. Beliefs. Not subject to rationale and logic. But they are not superstitions because they are based on love and adoration rather than fear. 


We all need such breaks once in a while. To discover the light within and the lightness it brings.

Confessions of a Single, Female Backpacker - II

It was synchronicity, just like it always is with places that are charged with deep, esoteric energies. I ended up on a impromptu trip to place never heard and known of . The story of the trip can however wait. The backdrop of this spiritual retreat deserves a poem of it's own.


The Nadia district may be famous for it's poverty and declining hand-loom industry. But much like the rest of the state of Bengal, Nadia has done it's part in churning spiritual leaders for our Age. At a time when the Indian middle classes were struggling with an identity crisis wrought by the British education and Victorian sensibilities cultural behemoths like Tagore, Raja Ram Mohun Roy came to their aid. And when the mainstream Hindu identity was starving for  fresh perspective Bhaktivedanta Prabhupada, following on the trail blazed by Mahaprabhu Chaitanya of the this same region rose into prominence.


Our generation, for the most part is afraid of committing itself as religious for fear of sounding fundie and crazy, given the riots and crimes of irrationality we have seen in the name of religion. Then we are not really  clear if agnostic what describes us because quite frankly, being Indians who will never give up on Ganpati Bappa and Diwali we are certainly NOT agnostics. And that dreadfully, dreaded A word. Atheism inspires about as much respect in our peer set and family circle as a bout of the measles. I don't know about you, but given the above conundrum we mostly mark the tick on quasi-pseudo-spirituality. Of course, our grandparents may think we are Kaliyug hippies but they don't know the confusion we deal with. Old school religion is out of the question. But we won't stop celebrating our version of Star wars meets Chinese New Year - by which I mean that festival when the great Saviour Rama won back his Queen from that Demon King Ravana. We spend the annual budget of Somalia on the crackers, diyas and festoons of Diwali alone. But we shy from identifying ourselves as hardcore Hindus because BJP made Hindutva a crazy word. Such is our malaise. 


Commitment Phobia of the Spiritual kind.


Me, not of Hindu origins at all. But lustily desirous of all our multi-colored celebrations of human and divine adventures. A travel junkie with a serious fetish for .... well, pilgrimages to the oldest, holiest, culturally richest spots of our mad country. Believe me, until you have taken a boat trip down the ghats of Benares, taken  a dip in the chilly Ganges at Hrishikesh and been a mad member of a party of clowns climbing up mountains for a nano-second darshan of a deity - you don't live in the real India. A lot of experiences can be added that laundry list, of course. About 1000 more such examples. But the fact remains my friends that REAL India, unspoilt by the influences of our Victorian past and post - Mughal dark ages is still breathing in it's silent corner. Waiting to be explored. And be amazed and disgusted by, simultaneously. No fancy, luxury trip to Thailand and Europe will ever meet the pulsating experience that real India offers. And it does not involve being a Hindu, I am not. One simply partakes a cultural experience, be it religious or not.


My trip to Nadia had it's share of highs and lows in balance. The excruciating heat that gave me a splitting headache. But the pure, green farmland that formed the backdrop of the Iskcon Mayapur facility was ethereal. And living in a straw hut, replete with spookiest forest sounds at night that made me wish I wasn't a lone sleeper. The barge I took down the Ganga to get across to Nabadwip - of all things in our country the Ganga is a ceaseless wonder of the ages. Somehow, sailing across the Ganga will put you in your place where nothing else can. You are sailing on waters that your own ancestors have both sailed and dissolved in. The narrow bylanes where saints, seers and poets of yore sang and danced with the intoxication of Krishna Bhakti. 


To take a trip down the district of Nadia is to harmonise that spiritual vagueness within ourselves. And simultaneously absorb the soothing, mellow nectar of our cultural and religious beliefs devoid of doctrine, rigidity, casteism and creedism. Nothing but joy. If nothing else the ecstasy of the dreadfullly early 4 a.m. arati that draws devotees from across nearby villages to mirthfully dance in the temple can break the stifling big city drudgery we all long to escape.


A collection of Nabadwip/ Mayapur images. 

My Next Batch of Sweeties - II

I had on my hands girls rescued from the street, raised in a shelter home away from families and now at the threshold of adult life. My interaction with them raised an issue they possibly never thought about. A complete absence of any religious training or spiritual education whatsoever.


Us, we are lucky. We get to choose what to follow. If we feel the way of our faith supplemented by our upbringing suits us we can follow that. If not, we have a wide array of choices made possible by the educated milieu to which we belong. We can read books, join classes and study groups to explore spirituality and any spiritual figures who appeal to us. We can do all this because we can afford the money and the leisure. Our basic and advanced needs are met to leave space for spiritual exploration and networking.


What about a group of girls that has neither the upbringing nor the conveniences  above. Who have neither explored nor experienced the raw positivity that saints, seers and poets of yore have left as our inheritance, who have never discussed with anyone any virtue, any goodness, any source of higher power ? This was a truth that exposed my ignorance of how much of a privilege we have in these matters. As with food, positivity that comes from a spiritual source is the sustenance of the mind and soul. We need it, imperfect,irrational or unreal as it's source and form may be. This need leads us to astounding synchronicities and connections.


To my batch, I tentatively told them to explore any appreciation, respect or attraction they harbour towards any Deity, saint or role model. Need not be of your faith. Fearlessly abandon the monotony of regimented sheltered approach and explore the concepts of love and power in any shape or form that appeals to you. I didn't add that once they take that first step, beginner's luck will come into play and their minds and lives will follow a surprisingly planned course of action that will lead to the blossoming of their inner selves.
Isn't the above how most of us end up on our paths ? Exploring an initial attraction we find ourselves firmly following the plan of the deity or belief figure if not a path that has been paved by them. For what seems like the nth time my own conniving Krishna is taking me on a retreat one of his homes. The birth place of the modern day Bhakti Movement  or Renaissance in India. The Nadia District of Bengal. That I should be on way to place I  knew neither existence nor the significance of until I had the above interchange with the girls speaks volumes. As you give, you receive.


And the Single, Female, Backpacker's journey continues.

When Murder is my Right

When you are trying to analyse a social evil like infanticide the problems of reliable statistics and factual study are tough to beat. The UNICEF statistics for infanticide have come under criticism by our establishment ( predictably) for inflation and sensationalism. While that may be true there is another problem - the absence of reliable background history of this problem. How did we end up here, not just as a democracy, a culture but perhaps as human beings.


Various sources agree that the Greek and Roman Empires openly allowed and encouraged infanticide in a bid to make sure only the fittest made up their citizens. Not just female but even male infants who appeared sickly or below the par were abandoned in a jar on the roadside to die of starvation. And we all know how these two mighty " Civilizations " eventually .....  Germany,Sweden, Native American colonies, Aboriginal tribes, Brazilian indigineous tribes,  Russia ,China .....  it seems the human race has this ONE  facet of history in common with our country.


And in every culture  the infants exterminated were perceived to be of lesser value at that point in time and reference . Relative morality at it's best. And, most IMPORTANTLY - the practice was validated by the customs, culture and in case of Greek and Rome - the FIRST democracy and republic of the world.


 Infanticide is thus not a sign of degraded, backward thinking cultures. 


Infanticide is a sign of an advanced civilization approaching decay.


All the above examples of civilizations and cultures were at their peak when the practice of infanticide, neither condemned nor shamed, rose like the Kraken from the deep. None of these cultures did anything worthwhile to arrest it. Because quite frankly - only the fittest deserve to survive.It was less than average males and females in Rome and Greece, females in general across the indigenous populations in North and South America, China, Arabic Middle East .... the list is endless. 


Female infanticide is no more heinous than the abortion of an infant discovered to harbour genetic deformities through sonogram. Today we don't leave them on the road in a jar to die. We establish, obsessively through the technology at our disposal that the future human in making is perfect to the last nail. And if we decide he doesn't deserve a shot because he falls short of genetic perfection we have the medical community, lobbyists and the LAW on our side. 


As parents we measure the quality of life on the scale of our self-serving whims and fancies, decide what it takes to live in the fullest sense. Then we decide if, in what number and what kind of children fit into OUR vision of a life lived well in the context of our point in time, our system, culture and civilization. We decide not to have children when we feel they will not contribute to our self-gratification as much as take from it. We decide how many of them will tilt the balance in our favor and at what stage of our lives.


It just so happens that some of us feel that girls in whatever quantities and qualitites will not add as much as deduct. Will not have much of a life anyway in the environment they are being spared of, much like a Down's syndrome boy won't be able to make the most of his privileged life in a first world city. Her parents think their system, civilization is more demanding on them and her than she will be able to meet. Just as economics forces some parents to avoid or terminate children beyond a numeric figure, these parents find her a losing proposition. All that investment in time and MONEY over  a second class citizen on par with the blind, deaf and handicapped. Who will not return their investments by caring for them in their old age or turning in their pay packets.


The world over, all countries that practice selective abortion irrespective of gender are approaching decay and rot like Greece and Rome. Where humans who don't contribute as much as they consume of the system are to be exterminated. Never mind their hearts are beating in vitro or out of it. 


Because there is Less of it for all of us.So only the fittest deserve whatever there is to have.


The need is not to change the laws, to punish the errant.The need is to arrest the ROT of the system where there are too many grabbing for too less.Education, employment, food, lifestyle. All nose-diving across the first, second and third worlds.


Our world is approaching ROT.


Female infanticide is not a women's issue for feminists to rail about. It is symptom for us as Indians to arrest the decay around us by examining and healing our own attitudes on life and living. 


Aamir Khan has put the bell on the cat. Now it's your turn.