Interpreter of Maladies
Monday, February 13, 2006
The visit to the PlanetariumIts been close to an year and I have not seen the Birla Planetarium. Its 10 minutes from Masi's place-I still haven't seen it. On Saturday, when the client for whom I am doing this Non-Profit counsulting assignment failed me, I decided to go for a peek into Cal. A crowded bus brought me to Victoria (No I havent even been inside that)which alas, was closed for the day (it was just 5.05..the thing closes at 5..what bad luck). A small walk into the lateral gardens around Victoria brought me to the Birla Planetarium. Its a rotund and white building with a placard outlining the timings and languages for the presentations. I checked the watch-it was barely 5.30 but the show was Bangla. Heck, who cares, I told myself. I will just watch. Shelling out 20 bucks for the ticket, I walked inside a sparsely populated auditorium. Soon, lights were off. And then, it happened. A blanket of stars, just above my head appeared on the round surface. I watched-miraculously amazed. My eyes were wedded to the sight then and there. It might really sound funny but I have never seen stars shine so bright or felt so peaceful in darkness. In times such as ours, how many of us even have a terrace where you can lie down and look at stars. How many of us evne have the privilege to look at a clear, silent sky. I assume that was why the sight appeared so outstandingly pleasant to me. Sure, the announcer talked to us about the constellations, the planets, the galaxy and the milkyway. But I waited expectantly for the sky to turn starry again. I know the account might seem bizarre but it just seemed so naturally nice to me. It made me wonder why didn't I come here earlier sometime.
Was under hibernation for sometime. Doing nothing dramatically unusual..just the normal sleeping affair. Three stories to share:
1. The Calcutta Book Fair
2. The visit to the planetarium
3. Watched Park Avenue at last
To start with, the Book Fair. Calcutta is quite an elite city-though on surface you might now find any signs of the so called enlightenment, the city claims to possess, there are rich cultural underpinnings to the place. The Bengalis are a well read community and that impresses me coz' the land I come from has produced one of the best writers of the country but who reads them-who even remembers a Harivansh Bacchan or a Mahadavi Verma or a Jayshankar Prasad. Bengalis preserve their culture. For them a Satyajit Ray movie was a masterpiece as much in the yesteryear as today. The Calcutta Book Fair is also a strong symbolic display of this culture. After delaying the thought of marching upto Maidan in a bus-tram-metro combo, I finally took the leap on a hot, dry Saturday. The Book Fair-inspite of being one of the biggest events of the year for the Cal denizens, is severely unmanaged. After treading through a dustladen pathway where all types of vendors (yeah, you find people selling local denims outside a book fair !!) would appear from nowhere to block your way. After the long drwan struggle one manages to reach the ticket window which is btw...absolutely empty !! While I am wondering how on earth could this happen, I see a long queue and this is not JUST long, its as long as the whole stretch of the pavillion. So, the stranger in Neverland that I was, I joined the patient line. So Mr. Ghosh wants to move ahead of me because they have a crying child and Mrs. Banerjee pushes me unmercifully coz' of God alone knows what reason. Well, I finally reach the gates of the erstwhile Book Fair and well, I am amongst the small ignorant lots with a ticket. The rest straddle in with some or the other pass or on the pretext of being one of the organizer...I salute the Bangla Land. Inside, the stalls are crazily marked with numbers mostly in Hindi or tucked in some unforseen corner of the stall. I was looking for a number 391-My masi is the editor of a Hindi magazine which was being launched on the day of the book fair. I thought I would drop in and help her out. But, how on earth do I find the stall !! So I ask Mr. X who doesn't know Hindi/English or even symbol language. I ask Mr. Y- well he has no time. I go to the Helpdesk-they too (how coincidental) don't know a word of Hindi and English. Alice got lost in Bookland. So I walked and walked and walked and after getting lost zillion of times, reached the humble little stall of Hindi books in a bylane. Godsent sight-I saw Masi, then spent sometime with the small little Hindi speaking gathering which had come together for the launch of that rookie magazine.
I had a huge list of books to be bought in the book fair. There weren't any English books because as well known to most of us, English books are widely avaialable, no matter where you are. The big problem is with Hindi books-No one reads them though there is a small clutch of writers that still writes painstakingly. In the small stall that hosted Masi''s magazine, I began my book hunt. Well, what a joy it was. I wanted to buy all-from Safdar Hashmi to Rahi Masoom Raza; from Mannoo Bhandari to Ismat Chugtai; from Jayshankar Prashad to Bacchan. Bought 10 books-a myriad set ranging from Mohan Rakesh, Rahi Masoom Raza, Bhishm Sahni, Shrilal Shukla and Hazariprasad Dwivedi. Was too happy to even feel the pain in my legs or the dirt in my eyes. Sat down to talk to Masi then. Discovered some realities then-there are only 2 stalls of Hindi books in the fair. Seems surprising, shocking...no..very expected. Who buys Hindi Books these days? The Hindi teachers, the MA Phd students..who else...and why do we care...?
Me and Masi took a round of the Book Fair then. Trying to find the Bhartiya Jnanpith stall. Went all around the ground 2-3 times-all I saw were Bengali books, English books..even Spanish books/Australian books. What is happening to this country? Why do we carry the charade of having a national langauge when we can't even show a morsel of respect for it? Why do we still have prizes for best writings in Hindi/Sanskrit? Who cares for these dead languages? Few weeks back, I saw some ceremony commemorating the death anniversary of Harivansh Rai Bacchan. Heard Kavi Neeraj speak in the gathering. I saw the old age, the bent back and the pain of being a writer who does not know whom to write for. We praise Urdu. We go gaga over Ghazals. But how many of us go and buy the dust laden Hindi literature. A Harivansh Rai Bacchan is remembered as the father of a fimstar and not as a celebrated poet. He won't be happy if he is looking down from wherever he is.
Munching on these facts and some Muri, I straddled back to college. With my huge load of books and a heart heavy with the same sadness I felt when I went to buy Hindi books at a shop in Kanpur which closed due to dearth of buyers. Something needs to be done...what..I am still wondering.