The 7th Baul-Fakir Utsav and notes from there

Seven years of a festival, an Utsav, which has total dedication but no worthwhile sponsorship or patronage, which has some of the best in ethnic Bangla folk music, audiences of no particular stereotype thoroughly enjoying themselves, and then you hear it may be the last one you'll get to attend.

Not good news when the day is washed out by unseasonal rain and the second day of the Utsav becomes a damp squib too. Still, the music never stopped.

Tipaniya and troupe from Maharashtra rendering Kabir were a revelation. It was the first time non-Bangla folk was performed here. Fakirs from Bangladesh and India dominated the first day and the rain stopped late night Baul performances. Not being able to go the second day, I heard disappointment all around, all due to the weather gods. But the music continued in the temporary akharas where these wandering minstrels held court in various locations around the Shaktigarh math.

The other not-so-good news I heard was that an organisation which has so far been doing fairly commendable work to promote ethnic musics like Baul, Fakir, Sufi and other strains has suddenly decided to aggressively promote their own edition of a Fakiri utsav at another location in a different district of Bengal on the same days when the iconic Joydeb Mela happens in Birbhum. This is also sad because the Shaktigarh Baul-Fakir Utsav of Calcutta takes pains to ensure their schedule never infringes on another similar music festival and they have a built-in convenience with their dates which lead naturally to the Joydeb Mela, next on the calendar for the performers and listeners.

The good news or thing that I saw this time was that there were significantly larger numbers of young people than previous years and more people spread the word about the Utsav through social network means. I’m unaware of how this may have translated into better revenues for the organisers but I sure hope it did. But this time I personally heard less music and indulged in a whole lot more of social niceties. And that made me wonder again about the future of such festivals.

Perhaps you do need aggressive promotion and corporate patronage. Where's the cut-off point? How do you know that the music and the musicians will not succumb to playing to the money, as opposed to playing for the money? Where's the guarantee that with changing listening dynamics, the music will not be completely corrupted into the fusion/confusion nonsense that has already taken hold in the world of music? I have no answers for these questions. I have some experience of promoting music and all I can say is that the lines are being blurred every day. Rock guitarists performing their own stuff at classical guitar concerts are a scary indication of how things are changing.

I’m far from being a purist. In fact I advocate change. I would not otherwise be a jazz lover. I’m not sure where these changes will lead, though it is a fact that all change leads to some where else. Ever the optimist, I have hope that the musicians themselves will be true to their calling and their creativity. The increasing presence and keen interest of younger people at such utsavs and jazz fests are surely indicative of not just change but also new directions, and this need not result in desultory fusion, that formula as dependable as Bollywood.

I am not one who wants things to be the way it was when I was young, or when I first heard the music. I’m just hoping that a lot of these unfortunate experiments in fusion music will die quick deaths. That as a listener and a regular purchaser of recorded works, I will be offered a bigger variety of new talent and skills who will adapt, interpret and improvise on what I believe are standards in music. Yes, of course social, political, economic and cultural changes will affect and influence the music. This is necessary. The direction it needs to go is not a bastardisation but a seamless development, a continuous process where external factors are incorporated, adapted, improvised with, rather than itself becoming the change. I’m not sure if I can explain because I’ve been writing about my feelings about music for so long and I’ve never been completely satisfied with what I think and how I express it.

Still, the Jadavpur Shaktigarh Baul-Fakir Utsav holds a special place in my heart. I don't want it to wrap up because the economics don't work out any longer. So if it comes to paying the piper then one might as well, provided of course that you are allowed to play your own tunes too.

One of those evenings...

Just one of those days. Rather evenings. Sitting out in the open on my terrace, on my own, after a long time. What Delhizens call a barsati and get all orgasmic about. There's the pretence of winter in Calcutta's air. Some folks out on the roads wear winter clothes and others not. I'm not worried about the lack of winter in December. I know climate change is a reality. So my environmental activist friends tell me. And I tend to trust friends. I'm worried about having to do bullshit work for shit money for which they will pay me in February. I'm worried about having to pay the rent tomorrow, pay for utilities, for food and living decently, if not comfortably. And too I'm missing my daughter. I'm missing my girlfriend. Both of them far away in other parts. Like the state of my finances. Same.

Today is the the common birthday of two of my closest friends. The one I knew from childhood because of family connections and then through school and adult life, finally to the cusp of our dotage, went and died five years ago. The other guy I've known from school days is still around and I wish him a long life full of whatever he wants. Which leads me to thoughts of other dead friends. Naturally my own mortality is pondered.

So then I move to other thoughts. Thoughts of fusion music. And my considerable antipathy to this form of music. Especially the variety that attempts to put Indian classical in juxtaposition with jazz. Some of which may or may not be punctuated by rock and funk and overtones or undertones of a Western classical influence. Depending on where you're coming from.

And I say, hey, I want to hear you play your music in my country. Stuff I don't usually get to hear live. I don't want you to play or experiment with the music from my country and show me how skilful you are. Or how well you harmonise with the culture of my country. We are all in harmony, at peace. Have always been. That's a given. It's the politicians who have issues, who want war. And also the big business. They're worse. They also want branding. You're musicians who play a certain sort of music. Do that. Don't be politically correct. I know you're good, or so I've been reliably told. And it's why I pay good money to see your show. Then please don't play fusion. Or world music. Or stuff that is as confused as the politicians we elect. The ones who wage war on our behalf. Not just with other countries but with their own country folk too. Without actually consulting us. You, as musicians have a more definite purpose. It's to play music. IMHO, fusion and world music is somewhere on the peripheral fringes of music as I understand it. Not that my understanding is of any concern to you if you anyway want to do that crap. What does happen is that you lose out on a paying customer. A person who will pay exorbitant prices for a cheap beer just because a club with elitist credentials allows you to perform in their space. And lets you think that the sun shines out of your rear end.

And then I think of how rum is a good drink. It's the first alcohol I ever drank seriously. That is, to get pissed- farting-drunk. Which I did. And then I remember I first had rum with another friend who is dead. Whose final throes of a life half-lived took place in my room and ended on a hospital bed the next day. Six years ago. So then I contemplate on how very good the stuff from Himachal is. In combination with rum. And then I wonder how a litre of rum, in ratio, can be cheaper than its 375 ml bottled version. I know too I will never understand economics, even when it was my graduation subject. But I do understand cheaper booze when it is offered to me. Is that applied economics?

And I absolutely agree with the presently acting Telecom Minister of India, Kapil Sibal's orders to digital social media to manually filter objectionable content related to the Gandhis, the Congress and maybe the Sibals too. As a matter of fact I want Kapil Sibal to further ensure that social media companies filter and delete posts, status updates and the rest of the bumf on Facebook, Google+ and Twitter which lack intelligence, goodwill and cheerfully positive statements. Since I live in a democracy I want to be able to decide what qualifies for those standards. Just like His Capillary Sibilance (yuck!) can decide what is objectionable and uploadable. There's a good opportunity here for the Minister to ensure an abundance of employment. Especially for the dullards who are being technically certified in internet technology every year and are being projected as the future of our country. It is they who are posting objectionable content not being gainfully employed and in all probability devastatingly underemployed. Or becoming redundant as their jobs are outsourced to the Philippines. In fact this will, by extension, also take care of the inane posts from all our tech-friendly politicians and wannabe politicians like Shashi Tharoor, and Amitabh Bachchan. Even Suhel Seth – neither here nor there but wannabe with a capital W alright.

So this is one of those evenings of mine which come and go. This time, before it went, I wrote it down, literally dragging it into words on a page, imprisoning it in verbiage before it escaped me. Escaped my memory. My sloth. And indifference. So here, presented for your perusal, your commentary, your ignoring of it, your utter lack of interest in it, is a report of one of those evenings which make up my completely ordinary life.

In the Name of God

30 July 2011

This evening a screening of Anand Patwardhan's 1991 documentary film “In the Name of God – Ram ke Naam” was held at the Max Mueller Bhavan auditorium. Organised by a three year old magazine published from Calcutta called Kindle, the screening was followed by a discussion between the film maker and Tarun Vijay, the national convenor of the BJP.

The film was really all about the content and context in which it was made, a year before the Babri Masjid was destroyed and India was consequently polarised further into religious domains. As far as film making goes there's a lot I didn't care for, yet as a documentary film it's a solid piece of work and it hits the Hindutva supporters where it hurts quite a bit. Still, I found myself nodding off in a couple of places despite that... probably my fault.

The post-screening discussion, anticipated to be exciting, didn't disappoint. Once the almost sermonic Hindu/Muslim/anti-Indian posturing by both Anand and Tarun, and to a large extent the moderator as well took off, Calcutta's vibrant audience made their presence felt. Tarun Vijay as the BJP representative played his role well, grandstanding to an audience he could easily feel were antagonistic to him. Anand Patwardhan maintained his veneer of coolth and rationality as one might expect of someone of his repute. Neither of them though, can be held to represent the aam janata's voice. The moderator, Parnab something, apparently the Roving Editor of the magazine (whatever that might mean), was trying to be diffident and unbiased, but I suspect he was having fun watching the audience react the way they did. Calcutta-people can have quickly inflamed passions. You don't need much to set them off and if you try to be condescending and above them all, you're likely to get hurt. When Tarun Vijay walked off stage taking umbrage at Anand P's remark about black money in Tirupati and other temples, he was summarily halted at the doors by heated audience members and sent back to the stage. Back in his chair, Vijay realised that he had no chance with a questioning audience and proceeded to hog the mike as his defence. He had earlier stated that everyone in India was of Hindu origin regardless of what their present beliefs may or may not be.

It was obvious Tarun Vijay could only espouse the old tired party line of Hindutva, and that too to a Calcutta audience, members of an electorate which has historically never given the BJP or associates a chance. He spoke on and on and was not really amenable to questions. When a 16 year old schoolgirl asked him whether he knew Ram's date of birth and his real birthplace, he proceeded to be condescending with the young girl and then went off on a tangent wanting to know if his questioner or anyone in the audience could give their great-grandfather's DoB or name his birthplace! He didn't expect that a whole lot of people were actually pretty well informed of these details. He ended up saying that Ram was born “10 lakh years ago”! He finally stormed off the stage closely escorted by a confused and worried looking personal security guard. Some of his supporters who appeared out of nowhere effectively blocked off some raging audience members wanting to take the fight outside, as Vijay made his getaway behind their affronted, protective backs.

The audience, comparatively calmer, yet seething energetically sat back in their seats to endure a tad more of Anand's rational posturing. Yes, he has made this film which is important, significant and almost predicted the later violence of Babri Masjid, and and some other controversial films. He spoke of being considerate of other's opinion and always listening to what they said even if one didn't quite agree. He flaunted statistics about the minority community in his suave manner. He rued India's awful polarisation into the Hindu-Muslim centres of power and opinion, somewhere along the way mentioning Christians, Parsis, Sikhs, Jains et al as an afterthought. But his film was no different. I wonder how a person who makes the sort of films he does, can remain only in observational mode without being affected by the circumstances yet still stay inactive. The only activism he has reputedly indulged in is to fight a number of legal battles over the years to ensure his films are permitted public screenings and freely distributed in India, thereby garnering overabundant publicity for himself. His standard justification most likely being that of one trying to uphold freedom of expression as guaranteed by the Constitution. The anger and the concern of the majority for the minority. I thought of the stickers I had seen many years ago on the walls of Bombay's suburban trains, yellow horizontal strips with printed red letters screaming, “Garv se kaho hum Hindu hain!” (“Say it with pride: I am a Hindu!”). And then the repartee appearing a few weeks later on those same walls, sober black text on a white background: “Pyar se kaho hum insaan hain” (Say it with love: I am human”).

[Found somewhere on the WWW]

I sat there and thought of my family and our extended family in all its glorious permutations and combinations. I thought of how many of us had married not just Christians, but Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs; of the ethnic origins of our various spouses: South Indian, Marathi, Gujarati, Chinese, Anglo-Indian, Anglo-Saxon, Mizo, Nepali, Punjabi and not just Bengali, and how we all had offspring from this miscegenation, who, if I may be allowed a slight amount of pomposity, are truly Indian. As differentiated from people who call themselves Bengali, Tamilian, Bihari or... Hindu. I thought of my maternal grandfather, a Thakur Brahmin from UP, who met my grandmother and converted to Christianity of his own free will to marry the woman he loved, of how he adopted a Muslim orphan from partitioned Bengal and raised him as his own along with his four children. I thought of my paternal great-grandmother and how she adopted a Muslim boy orphaned on the delivery table of the hospital where she worked as a nurse and raised him along with her four grandchildren, legally willing her property in one-fifths to all five. I thought of how this same lady and her daughter, my grandmother, two widows, offered their house in Park Circus during the pre-Independence Calcutta riots as a refuge for anyone persecuted from any community, regardless of their ethnicity and socio-economic status, merely because they believed so strongly in their Christian faith.

And I knew then that both these men were so wrong. India was not polarised because of our beliefs or attitudes. We were forced into becoming polarised because of men like them who play their blame games, with their disturbing espousal of their black and white theories, aggressively asserting that it is either this or nothing. They want us to see the world as they see it, as two distinct parts: us and them. I found Tarun Vijay and Anand Patwardhan to be opposing sides of the same coin.

As the session drew to a close, I wanted to ask both these men a couple of questions, and I might add of the moderator too. They remained unasked mainly because only 3 or 4 questions were allowed during the entire fiasco. But that is as may be. Since they had spoken so eloquently and often referred to the Constitution, what I wanted to ask was: Where does secularism as enshrined in the Preamble to the Constitution of India in its very first line, come into your arguments? And what have you done to promote it actively and positively as a human being first, leaving aside your “Hindu-Muslim communal polarisation”?

Kaal Boishakhi

The wind has an anger to it as it slams shuts windows and doors, unprepared as they are for its onslaught. I have thrown them open as wide as they can be to get the sly comfort of southerly afternoon breezes which pretend to allay the summer heat.

There was no way I was going to remain in sweat-drenched slumber in spite of the whirling fan while the angry wind raged about outdoors. Out on the open balcony, one cannot at first make out the wind's direction, but I notice the steaming afternoon has graduated into a warm evening which is occasionally sensationalised by long streams of cold air. The huge vinyl sheet of the billboard flaps loosely on its moorings and I watch its wind-racked sail-like movements scare the birds away. Black clouds from the west race southbound over me and I know this to be a kaal boishakhi, the nor'wester, the stuff romantic Bengali poetry is made of. Every time I witness one, I know why.

The tea's made and a couple of digestives dipped in the hot liquor: like ambrosia in this weather. The perfect ending to a long hot summer day.

There's a quality to the light at this time which is eloquent. It is a brightness that does not blind but illuminates more clearly than sunlight can. There are no shadows despite the clouds. Smiles linger on faces hurrying past. A gang of exuberant youth raid the lonely mango tree growing in the empty plot of land opposite my balcony. Over the months, I have been watching the bright green flowers bud into tiny fruit growing larger with the days. Today, they are under attack by the weather as it scatters them from the branches on the land overgrown with shrubs and weeds. The young boys collect the fallen fruit with glee by and I imagine them salivating as they think of the sharp tart taste of raw mango which will soon fill their mouths, neutralised yet heightened in a wonderful way by black salt.

The high-flying kites which normally soar way up above the tallest buildings riding the thermals are almost down to my level now buffeted by the wind. It's amusing to see them flap their wings like crows and not be in complete control of their flight. They still fly around in circles though as they do higher up in more convenient weather.

The rain is just a spatter at first, instant vapour as it hits sun-baked surfaces. And then a shower followed by heavy rain blown about by the wind which has become arrogant and fierce from its earlier mood of angry and wild.

I scamper inside, spilling my tea as the enveloping clouds darken the evening sky.

It's been a strange summer of overcast skies and more than occasional rain. Temperatures have been bearable most days and surprisingly, often quite wonderful. Whenever the real summer burns through this strange weather overlay, we cringe and look for favourable conditions on the net, on TV and the newspapers. My AccuWeather app kept saying “scattered T-storms” or “partly cloudy” and I hoped and hoped but it was obvious the T-storms were being scattered elsewhere and the clouds were partly some other where.

And then the strangeness happened. Again. Or at least what should have happened earlier, happened today - a kaal boishakhi.

It will be a good night's sleep.

Likely Scenario: The music business here

This piece appeared in the Economic Times Calcutta edition's pull-out supplement ET Casual on the 7th of January 2011 in a suitably edited form. What you read below is the original piece I wrote without the edits.

****

But The Music Never Stops

Get a load of this: A band of sincere, dedicated musicians spend years developing their own sound, seeking audiences beyond their present fans, wanting to make their music widely available. Enter big name label with bigger smile: “Tell you what guys. You record the album and we'll cover the expenses, even throw in some mastering in the UK. In return, you give us the song rights in perpetuity and we distribute the album. Whatever sells we get 80% 'cause we've got overheads, you get 20%, after deducting what we pay for recording costs. Then we'll split 50-50 whatever you make from live performances even though we have no system in place to get you gigs. So you do the footwork, get the sponsors and we'll point you to our printers who can give you a nice rate for posters, banners and all that. Oh yeah, and we'll send you the email IDs of a couple of event managers who could help. Look at it this way guys, you'll be an artist with our international banner and label. A global star on the upcoming artists page in our website. What more could you want?”

Band guys scratch collective head, think, think... “Ok. So, uh, how do you like, er, our music?”

Label guy: “...Music? Oh, yeah, sure music...” Voice trails off, quickly ordering cappucino for all.

Another scene in a glass-walled conference room up on the 13^th floor with a 180° view of other upcoming 13 and more floorers on formerly agricultural land: “Yes, of course we want to sponsor events where the youth gather. You know our brand is totally directed at a youth market and they love, we know from our own surveys, rock music.” Eyes glint ferociously behind designer glasses as he looks steely-eyed at four earnest musicians, a couple of them not evidently stoned, all of them entering the chronological crisis space, wondering wtf are we doing here?

“Just to set things on an even keel, what exactly does the sponsor get from all this? I mean, all this so-and-so presents you guys in concert, prime positioning of our banners, standees is all normal stuff. What else?” He makes it sound like it's war.

“Um, mention of your brand during the announcements?”

“Yeah, yeah sure, and...? Ok, look, since that's all you guys can give what we propose is we come in for 15% of this budget you've given and we want our brand as main sponsor.”

“But that offer is for those who come in for 50% or more!”

Maniacal giggle emanate from designer wearing marketing jockey. “50%? Who's going to give you 50%? I mean you guys aren't filling up a stadium are you? It's just a 600 seater audi better known for theatre. Make it up from ticket sales, but give us 200 comps before that, we'll give it to our loyal customers. What? A hundred bucks? You guys are underselling! Charge at least 350-400 per! How will you recover your costs, man! Now if you guys did some Bollywood stuff, some Rahman tunes, you know? You can get sponsors just like that!” Fingers snap cruelly.

Consequentially...

The band's album is only available in 6 stores in four metros and two Tier 2 cities where ignorant salesfolk move the CD from top shelf to bottom shelf on the 2^nd day of display. After three months, the label says sales are dismal and they are not considering any further reprints. Band gets an accountant's statement saying whatever has sold has been adjusted against recording and mastering expenses paid by the label and that the band still owes the company a sum roughly equalling the combined investment the musicians made in their equipment over the years. In six months, once the entire stock of 250 units has been sold out the label tells the band to record another one at the same terms and conditions. This time the contract will have additional clauses allowing the label to use any or all their songs in other compilations and that radio play too will not entitle them to royalties. Ringtone sales will entitle them to 8% of the income generated from there. The band has no way of monitoring and auditing all this and Big Smile expresses grief when they ask him how this might be done. Nothing is mentioned in the contract about paid downloads from the label's website.

The 15% main sponsor who hogs all the prominence threatens delayed payment and penalty clauses as his standees are not correctly positioned in the 'high traffic' zone of the auditorium's lobby to get complete eyeballs from the footfalls. 350 bucks being a little too steep, the band has heavily discounted ticket prices even after having paid a 25% agricultural income tax to the government because ticket prices exceeded 90 rupees. The sponsor not having paid any advance, the band pays all expenses upfront, already exceeding what the main sponsor has come in for. Other sponsors who came in for less did so because they wanted to bask in the glow of the main sponsor's shine. And they felt no need to sponsor more because they believed the main sponsor would defray the bulk of the expenses.

Three months after the show, Designer Wear is talking about being busy at international conferences, internal meetings, year-end deadlines and key personnel quitting as reasons for not releasing their cheque that should have been paid 15 days after the event... “subject to conditions”. In the months after the show, as they waited for the cheque, the band registered themselves, got a trade license, a bank account, a PAN card, completed online documents, signed multiple hard copies and spent even more money on a dentist to repair the ruin caused by gnashing their teeth. The other sponsorships, reluctantly paid, seemed somehow meagre after TDS.

The last I heard the band was persevering, still doing gigs that came their way, a little persnickety about the ones they took. And they are on the lookout for a better deal from maybe another label. Or maybe they'll put their stuff up on indie sites on a favourable sharing arrangement. Maybe they'll just give it all away for free.

But the music never stops.

This La Martiniere Thing

Everyone is writing about it. La Martiniere has been the school for generations of everyones. The school in Calcutta, specifically the boys' section, has lately been the subject of intense discussion, not just in the city, but across the country and continents, where Martinians reside. You are never an ex-Martinian. You identify yourself in groups, online and on-ground as So-an-so from LMC or LMK – Lucknow or Calcutta, the year you graduated, and the House you belonged to.

So here I am with my version of this La Martiniere thing. It has been inspired (inappropriate word given the circumstances) by the suicide by hanging of a current student and the corrupt demands of a teacher, both incidents occurring back to back.

Go here and here for the murky details...

...And here, here and here for the sage-like commentaries.

Who am I to write of this other than being a Martinian? Well, because for instance, my father, uncle, sister, ex-wife, daughter, cousins, nieces and nephews all studied there, many with distinction, as well as for other sundry relatives who taught there, this has been part of our personal heritage. We do owe a lot to the “schooling” we received. And I am making a distinction between schooling and education.

The media of course, predictably enough, has run amuck with the stories. Martinians all over are expressing anguish, solidarity, maudlin sentimentality and all the other usual over-the-top human emotions which get prominence when circumstances do not affect one directly or individually. Apologists for corporal punishment, child rights activists and ex-student commentators such as me abound in cyberspace. While the “Great Game” is playing in South Africa at the time of writing, a 'great' game of observations and obfuscation is being played, at a lesser and localised level no doubt, in the La Martiniere thing.

I've often wondered at the sentimental attachments we have towards our alma mater. I cannot help being amazed at the continuing nostalgia we gloat over and the life-lessons we allege to have learned at this institution. While we were in school we were told that such would be the case. That was the greatest benefit of of having had a Martinian schooling. Or so we were made to believe. Many of us still do. Despite knowing things to the contrary.

For me, the school's name did open a few doors, the old boys' network did play a role, but I consider them insignificant to whatever I can claim to have achieved. The formal education I received was ordinary, tantamount to mediocrity, except for a couple of subjects. Of all the teachers who participated in my formal education in the Humanities, only two names stand out whom I can claim contributed importantly to my intellectual development – the late Mr Sudhir 'Denzy' Bose, and Mr John Mason. My classmates from the Science stream can possibly add three more names. The others did nothing whatsoever to develop our young, impressionable minds. Only a few others were brief influences in my “schooling” and who faded into the background as I progressed. The majority were the ones I detested, who were pugnacious, vicious, and of such mediocre intellect, that had I been of lesser capabilities, I would have probably been a basket case because of their “teachings”. They included two Vice Principals and one Principal. Naming names has no relevance here. La Martiniere went by its historically established reputation and not because of the “teaching” it offered. At least in my time, other schools in the city were known for better quality education than LMC.

We did have enviable playing fields in both the boys' and girls' sections, the only swimming pool in a Calcutta school, tennis and basketball courts, a boxing ring, a majestic enough building with mythological underground pathways to Fort William, extra-curricular activities like theatre, elocution, debate, art and science exhibitions, the NCC and Boy Scouts, not to forget the Safety Patrol which handled traffic problems outside the school gates like a boring game. A well-stocked library, Western music lessons, an exclusive but ridiculously expensive school tailor, dormitories which accommodated more residents than any other school in Calcutta, all gave LMC an aura that was hard to beat. Our annual Sports day, Prize day and Founder's day were elaborate events unmatched by any of the other institutions.

The founder of the school, the raffish Major General Claude Martin, served the French, the British and the Nawab of Oudh in the 18^th century, making a considerable fortune thereby, and was obviously a man who thought out of the box. This was also where the people executing his legacy after his death were at complete odds with his intentions. Legal wrangles that stretched for 30 years and more finally settled for Anglican Church administration that did not allow for discrimination on grounds of caste, creed or community. Some poor Christian students received the largesse of his benefaction as well as that of another Calcutta trader and businessman, Paul Chater, and they were known as Foundationers. This is continuing I am given to understand.

I was caned many times. I was never caned for failures or lack in educational progress. In fact none of my batch were. We were caned for “disorderly and unbecoming conduct”, for “disobeying” rules and sometimes, unwritten laws. This was the 60s and 70s. To be disorderly, disobedient and unbecoming was fashionable for our generation. In the last year of school, some of the sportsmen in the Calcutta team for our annual fixtures against our Lucknow sister school were given what we batchmates viewed as a raw deal. Two of them being prefects, were stripped of their ties. In solidarity and protest against this high-handedness, all us other 14 prefects, silently went into the Principal's office one by one and handed in our ties. The rest of the batch boycotted classes and games for that day. The next day we did not perform our prefectorial duties and there was chaos, especially in the rounding up of the junior classes. But the message got across to the management. We were not going to take any old shit you threw our way. That day, Mr Bose and Mr Mason brokered a truce. The two sports team members side of the story was heard and their dignity restored. The Principal, who was subsequently removed during our final year for other reasons, was as usual stone-faced and unapologetic. That is probably the only time such an incident has taken place in the history of LMC, and I personally am still very proud of what we managed to achieve. Almost none of our educators were in any way inspiring or motivating. Rather, I remember them as dogmatic and cruel, and in retrospect, frustrated has-beens who opted for physical punishment to get their point across. A few of them moved on to become reputable educators in other schools across the country, including our sister school in Lucknow, laughable achievements to say the least. What is worse and unfortunate for me personally is that I recall them all to be Anglo-Indians, a community I otherwise have a declared affinity and love for.

My schooling was largely acquired from the interaction I had with my school mates. We came from a heterogeneous mix of cultures, religions and backgrounds. Radical thoughts, extreme posturing, diverse opinions and varied influences, all made for a veritable revolt against the strictures which the school laid down. Other than English, my father and mother informally tutored me in almost all the other subjects. Those days most of the teachers were incapable of providing quality formal education. Today, when private tuitions are the norm, teachers are simply neglecting their vocational obligations for the lure of lucre.

What did LMC teach me then? That discipline was necessary for personal development alone. Others I came across in the wider world did not actually believe so, and despite everything one has to function in chaos. That the feeling of belonging to an exclusive, highly nostalgic coterie was something that would advance one's prospects in life. I was quickly disabused of such notions once I was out of the hallowed halls. That the formal education I received was the foundation for my future. Me and many of my batchmates are doing what we never thought we'd ever do when we were in school; the batch toppers have somehow not really lived up to their names or rather, their final results. We did have a crook from our batch who conned many of us into parting with money for a start-up website for the school when such things were in the realm of dreams. Needless to say, that particular website never happened and the batchmate disappeared. There was even one guy who claimed friendship with Sanjay Gandhi and stole cars when he wasn't studying. And there was a master who was more interested in taking rich boys and girls on jaunts to the Far East, Dubai and other places, than “teaching” us geography.

We learned what we did because we had the inclination to be better educated than the school could provide us. We learned because our parents and families wanted us to achieve honourably and they ably communicated that in so many ways to us. LMC was merely a transit station for me, one of the better ones to be sure, but transitory nevertheless. Comparisons with students from other “lesser” known schools don't hold water only because such comparisons are meaningless. Otherwise every single successful, multi-talented person would be a Martinian.

While I am about this La Martiniere thing let me also put into some perspective the significant role that the Church administration has played in sullying the “name we own”. Over the years, a general neglect of the school had led to huge financial losses where the legacy and benefaction left behind was completely eroded. When my late father, a member of the Board of Governors, together with the then Chairman of the Board developed the useless part of the property called the 'dhobi ghats' (and not the playing field) into a large income-generating proposition, the whole world and their uncle - the media, termed my father and his colleague thieves. Without getting into a defensive position for my parent, all I can say is that only his family and friends (many of them Martinians too) knew the heartache, stress and injustice he felt at this slander. I regret that I have not been able to live up to the standards and principles that my father set himself, first as a human being, secondly as an old boy, and finally as a Christian. That should have been the schooling I gave myself, rather than what LMC claims to have given me. Today, if the finances of the school are in the black, it is only because of the foresight that my father and his colleague had. And that is what the present Church authorities are milking for all their worth.

Today LMC is a money making racket. A paean to greed and petty larceny. The Christian part of that institution is just lip service. It is a well-known fact that the previous Bishop of Calcutta of the Church of North India, PSP Raju, the ex-officio Chairman of the school's Board was one of the most corrupt people around. He and his cohorts treated the many reputable English medium schools in the city under the aegis of the Church, as their personal milch cows and mostly as real estate property to be developed at a profit. The present Bishop is hoping to avoid too much shit hitting the fan by dissembling and being reticent in the face of controversy. He will probably succeed because there's just too much money involved and too many important people who can get caught in the crossfire. The media knows this very well and they too are playing the game. Some people are willingly becoming the fall guys in the machinations because their dubious involvement in the past will come to the fore if they stick around, and that is not an option for them. The press is anyway declaiming innocence on their behalf.

So here's one more thing I have learned. It is better to have studied in an ordinary and unknown institution that genuinely imparted education, rather than the place I was in which inculcated you with a false sense of glorious history and tradition and schooled you to be obedient, orderly and becoming. Fall in line, or else...

Berlin

We brought the rain in from India, I think. Berlin was raining and cold. The Germans told us it had been bright and sunny the week before. Still, you can feel a certain something about this most controversial of German cities. There's an energy as well as a sense of lassitude here that is almost palpable. Obviously the continental weather did not succeed in dampening my spirit.

The AEDES Network Campus is in Pfefferberg in Prenzlauerberg, what was once in the east, behind the Wall before the unification, rather the re-unification. Pfefferberg was once a brewery. Today it is a gentrified place, still being renovated and reconstructed, full of art galleries, cafes, a comedy club, a hostel, and a restaurant - Das Pfeffer - reputed for its nouvelle cuisine. I'm staying in a nice bright room overlooking a little garden with apple trees.
The AEDES gallery where the exhibition “What Makes India Urban?” will be on view for the remaining weeks of October and all of November, is buzzing with activity for tomorrow's inauguration. TV monitors and cables are being tested, printed vinyl and flex hangings are already hanging like washing at a dhobi ghat, and Sudarshan Shetty's art work installation is outside in the courtyard on thin iron rods placed in two rows. The cafe that adjoins it serves much needed hot coffee and we sit in the occasional sun feeling important but not quite knowing why.

Why are the Germans so taken up by India? There's a synergy between the two peoples and there's a hard attempt to ameliorate. Is there some primal bonding which anthropolgists and social scientists might better explain? I discard conjecture to simply soak in everything.

Germans have a serious sense of history which is reflected in their museums, and public spaces and places. The burden of recent history seems to envelope them in a wishful state: we wish it had been...might have been.. That's an initial impression. A strenuous attempt to recreate from ruins runs strong in their blood. Yet, the old it seems, must share equal presence with the new.

The strong and contemporary underground culture though is what everyone talks about. Mainstream happenings seem almost pale in comparison. To wit: an afternoon concert held on Tuesdays in the foyer of the magnificent Berliner Philharmoniker. An initiative of it's new director, Sir Simon Rattle, to bring in new audiences, the small group of 6 musicians played to a free audience of at least a 1000 people. I heard tell they would be performing from Ravel's Bolero. Instead, they began with Duke Ellington's Caravan, moved on to a Django Rheinhardt piece and played about 20 minutes more of trad jazz! One thing about classical musicians - they have the skill and mastery of their musical learning to play jazz...but they ain't got no soul!

Nevertheless, an enjoyable afternoon was had by all. But that same evening we went to a club in Mitte which had a DJ playing retro funk and soul music and the place was vibrant and throbbing, all cares thrown to the wind as people danced and a bright glow of energy suffused the place, positively lacking earlier in the day.

So it is the underground/alternative culture that drives it all. I begin to understand what “cutting edge” and “edgy” defines. Christopher Dell tells me a story of how he bought a second hand guitar off the streets, and then played a gig of contemporary music with others, without tuning the guitar. An old and what looked like an abandoned building complex somewhere near Mitte has been taken over by artist squatters. The place has multiple exhibits of art and sculpture, artists working real-time on their creations as you watch, small bars and music everywhere. The authorities turn a blind eye to such squats which are immensely popular with the young as they are for tourists.

Art, film making, theatre, sculpture, and music are all creating and recreating forms, breaking norms and established traditions not in a big-bang, communist-revolution kind of way, but in the small and regular and mostly unpublicised events and exhibitions, installations and innovations which keep happening all over this city, depending solely on individual largesse to sustain their art.

The city itself is in a state of constant change. Here change is the only constant. Topography and typology is in flux at any given time. Berliners themselves express mild astonishment at the sudden changes they see around them; the weight of history has resulted in this, Facades are maintained, though infrastructure is renovated, rebuilt, improved and expanded. The legendary lack of money in the city's coffers is not noticeable when I look at things with a Calcutta perspective. Yet, the citizens have the right to complain, to reject, and to ask for review in urban development policy matters and projects. My lack of the German tongue did not allow me to read newspapers or watch TV, but talking to people brought many things to light. One obvious fact is that big business and corporate spending is minimal, usually absent.


Oh, there's corruption and incompetence, but there's also civic pride and consciousness. Comparisons with Calcutta and Berlin would not be unfair, but useless. I'm not wanting to point fingers; simply making an attempt to understand. To forget history they have to relive it in a way that will prevent guilt and shame. The understated and the spectacular and everything in between vies for attention. Middle paths are found and crossed and always wind up where they started. It is the now cliched 'out-of-the-box', the 'progressive', the 'alternate' which make noise, stand apart, demand notice. The cosmopolitan nature of the city is what is not globalisation. This European crossroads of art and culture defies criticism, rejects labelling and generalisation, and mostly with glee. I often see that the doing is more important than what is being done. Crossovers in art and music are seen as quite traditional. Fusion is classical. Typecasting is shunned, and individualism is the flavour of choice. Freedom is self.

There are of course, the nay-sayers. You can listen to them and form your own opinion.

And there is the urbanity. Calcutta is positively rural if you must needs comparisons. The architecture and utilisation of urban spaces in Berlin are predominant as visual metaphors. (This is why India's urbanity is also examined and discussed in Berlin, the reason for my being there in the first place). Is progressive the word to use? I don't know. Shops don't require you to deposit your belongings when you enter them. Parks and statuary are open on all sides and open to all. Restaurants and bars really have no formal opening or closing hours, though Sundays are generally acknowledged as the day of rest. You can take your pet dog on to all public transport, into restaurants, bars and cafes and other public spaces, into airports and onto aircraft. Bicycles are allowed onto all trains and road space is designed so that 50% is for pedestrians and bicycles and the rest for motor cars. Cyclists have special lanes marked out exclusively for them on most streets and even have separate traffic signals! DB, Deutsche Bahn, the now private company which owns and operates the rail system, rents out bicycles at big U-bahn and S-bahn stations. Vandalism does occur but there's some control somewhere. You are not subjected to body-checks, metal detectors, x-ray machines, or other alert and useless security measures at such places. Three and a half million populate the city and that's no mean number for the capital city of Germany. It is also a city of immense significance for tourism, and yet state control is not freakish, at least not apparently, not in the 19 days or so I spent there. Though... police vehicle sirens often broke the silence of the streets at all hours of the day and night!


People are friendly. English is quite widely understood and spoken by the Germans. It is the other nationalities who speak their mother tongue and the working German they need to live there. Trust is a very strong principle and really a moral that nearly everyone lives by. You buy your ticket voluntarily from a vending machine for the public transport system but I have never been checked even once. I never did chance being a ticketless traveller though. The traffic lights are obeyed religiously. I have often waited at pedestrian crossings with locals with the light red on and no vehicle in sight till the light turned green and we all crossed the road, everyone nodding slightly at each other, acknowledging the wonderful civic sense we shared. When alone, I admit I did jaywalk a fair bit!

Berlin is for those who enjoy what its citizens usually call a bohemian life. You can stay on the fringes as an observer or a tourist, or you could just immerse yourself in whatever catches your fancy. I don't know how easy it might be to do that but the openness and curiosity which people show makes me think it shouldn't be too difficult. And there are young people everywhere. Youth is certainly in the majority. I'm told many of them are a pampered lot, provided with means of survival by indulgent parents as their wards live in this cheapest of all German, possibly European cities, exploring their interests and trying to make something of it. Academia is considered important and the state-run universities offer many courses, some quite esoteric in nature, and they attract students from all over.

I walked an average of 15 kilometres a day and I know this because my mobile phone has a built-in pedometer. It is a city that is friendly to the pedestrian. On my first day I looked around, wondering where all the people were. The next day onwards I was glad that the streets seemed so empty, even though there were occasional twinges of loneliness. But I did catch myself wanting to return to the more populated areas of Alexanderplatz, Mitte and Kreuzberg. I'm told it is the ideal city for a manic depressive. The weather helps in maintaining this state of mind, and the fact that most cafes offer breakfast till 5pm bears out this fact. Food choices are a delight and I ate of the cuisine of Germany, Bavaria, Vietnam, Spain, Turkey, Japan, France, Italy, and even Indian food. And I might add, beer as well from all these countries!

Dr Reimar Volker, the director of the Goethe-Institut Max Mueller Bhavan in Calcutta, gave me a collection of short stories by the well-known Bengali author Syed Mujtaba Ali by before I left for Berlin. Mujtaba Ali had been to Berlin in the 20s, years before WWII, the Wall and the reunification and I thought it interesting to perhaps follow in the man's steps 80-plus years later and see what sort of changes had taken place.
The first story introduced me to 'Hindustan Haus', located close to where Kurfutsendamm meets Uhlandstrasse and I thought it a good place to see what Ali was talking about. During Ali's visit, trhat area must have been a very multi-cultural and middle-class place, full of life and happenings. My visit revealed it to be what is termed an “upmarket' area today, lined with shops stocking big international brands and designer names. Boring and useless, especially when you're converting some 70 Indian Rupees into one Euro! Not that I indulge in such “high class” products at home, but still....

Of course while Mujtaba Ali's stories were immensely readable, it was hardly about Berlin as a city. Rather it was peopled with characters who made up Berlin then and I assume similar characters make it up again these days. Nevertheless, it gave me a sense of purpose and I saw an area of Berlin which the average locals seemed to be wary of.


Checkpoint Charlie was a personal disappointment for me. Having teenage recollections of the place as read about in countless cold war thriller fiction like John Le Carre's, it was like a Hollywood set. In fact the US and East German soldiers who stood at this tourist site were out-of-work actors, mostly amateurs from almost all walks of life. For a small fee, they pose with tourists who want their photos taken at this historic monument to political craziness. Remnants of the Wall are scattered all over the city. In one place in Kreuzberg, the Wall has been deliberately maintained as the East Side Gallery. This part was where some of the famous graffiti had decorated it when it first came down in 1989. The original artists were all contacted and asked to refresh their work which now stands not just as a fine example of modern art but also as a reminder of what the Wall means to the Germans. Unfortunately, my camera battery died on me the day I visited this place so I have no pictorial remembrances to share.

Berlin is a huge city. It is vast and wears its history like a shroud. Besides, there were many places I could not see for lack of time and often, inclination. Yet, that is good, because it gives me the sense of being able to return and see more. The next time I plan to spend at least one day in the Tiergarten, the huge rambling wooded parkland in the middle of the city, and take a nice boat ride down the lazy river Spree.

What did I come away with after 19 days in Berlin? Quite a few things really. Primarily, even if a superficial image of modern urbanity, the cosmopolitan nature of the city which was thankfully, not the American version of globalisation. Advertising on billboards was completely absent so you get clear views of all buildings and the skyline. Comparisons with Calcutta were just as superficial though there was similitude in feel and intensity, something intangible but quite real to me, as it was to Germans who have spent time in Calcutta. The youth are leading the “inner” development of Berlin. While politicians work on what they work at, it is the young people who are experimenting, reaffirming, rejuvenating, and re-establishing whatever comes their way. Cultural exchanges, coupled with random and brilliant ideas are inspiring intellectual development and recreating Berlin every day. Joined with new technology and distinctive scientific approaches, Berlin is defining a future for cities of the world which I find heartening and hopeful. While I have never been to London or New York, or other cities also held up as distinguished urban centres of change, I can understand Berlin is right up there with them all and in all probability will soon be leading the pack.


Berlin, for me, is a place which is offering an alternate version of future history and that might actually be worth living in.

The history, that is. Calcutta is quite fine with me as a place to live. I trust I shall live to see it.

***********

Postscript: Hamburg

Berlin was my "official" visit while Hamburg was a "personal" one. An evening there was well spent with some friends I made last year when they came to shoot a documentary in Calcutta. I was astonished and honoured when Stephan, Max, Olli, Till and Torben were all there to receive us at the station. We ate and drank Italian, caught up with the latest developments in all our lives, and had a merry time of it all. Olli generously offered us his home to sleep in as we were returning to Berlin the next evening. He left early the next morning for a short and sweet break on the north coast and my daughter, Antara and I walked about Hamburg city, took the pleasant harbour boat trip and ate some Portugese food the next day.

A short and sweet trip, Hamburg I realised has a throbbing energy and life to it that is different to Berlin's. It is certainly a rich city, more compact, and its busy port plays an important part in Germany's economy. I need to go back there some day for a longer visit.




More pictures: Hamburg, Berlin