BONG FAMILY RECITAL- Part I

One must take a peep into the mind of a typical Bengali lady, popularly called by the gentry as "bhodromohila". They attend even simple idol worship ceremonies to their friends houses; temples and common gathering points, dressed as if they were about to venture across to their own marriage altar. The ladies are unfailingly bedecked in the ubiquitous sari- ranging from silk to brocade; and jewelry ranging from the not so subtle to sheer gemstones that would even put the Queen Mother to shame. Avid lovers of rabindra sangeet, they also flock in droves to any cultural opportunity where artists are said to perform. Every lady is a full-mottled fantail, proudly displaying her latest shopping results on the ears, neck and arms. The husband looking moderately genteel in ethnic Indian wear, or, if the poor henpeck has been dragged straight from the workplace, strides in the slightly crumpled office wear. The expression says I may be a man, but the wife or "ginni" is 'THE' royal Bengal tigress after all; eliciting empathy from the rest of the male intelligentsia or "Bhodrolok". As soon as the venue has been reached, all the females flock around excitedly discussing the latest gossip, cricket celebrity game shows; sitcoms and their childrens' status updation. The males discreetly flee to the bar, post pleasantries, where armed with a whiskey or beer they settle down to berate the state government's dismal performance or the central government's thereof.

New Entrant: Hi Mrs. B, how have you been? You are looking very nice.
Mrs B: Thank you! (broad smile), I just bought this sari from X (a well known branded shop selling expensive sarees).
You wonder if the compliment has been interpreted by lady B as an affirmation that she generally looks pretty, or it is the sari that is making her look nice. Then, you start wondering if she took offense to being compared as a plain Jane otherwise.

New Entrant: And how is your family? (Hurriedly to deflect any possible assault)
Mrs B: My husband you know. The children are fine. My eldest son is in the US working for Company X (usually a top notch brand). He is earning '$$$$$' a month (which theoretically puts him on par with some Hollywood celebrities in terms of earnings); he has his own apartment and a car. He sends me gifts every two months and has been constantly telling me to come over and stay with him for a vacation. Maybe I will go in the summer/winter.(She nods with a proud smile).

(You cannot separate the Bengali from the motherland during the Durga puja celebration time; come natural calamities, or even a proven alien invasion to the city).

(You nod in agreement with her)

Mrs B: My daughter is married to Mr X's son.
She assumes you know Mr X. If you do, it is good for you. If you don't and say so, she looks at you with horror, as if you have landed from outer space since you DO NOT know the family her daughter has been married into. They are as famous as would be a royal family of the city.

You try and look hopefully impressed, admitting that you are ignorant; while the mind stores the name away for a reference check in posterity.

Mrs B: They are staying here in Street X. They are very happy. I have a grandson. He is 7 years old and adores me. Every weekend he comes over and spends the entire day with us. He is so smart- he plays XBox and sports (think only cricket or tennis); reads encyclopedias and was offered a double promotion in school since he is so intelligent and way above the average level of his class. I refused, since it is better to let him progress through the classes normally as there is no hurry to complete his education. (The dialogue speed, or rather rap would put Eminem to shame).

She nods again without adding anything else. Since it is a typical Bengali nod where the head moves not only left and right, but also up and down in a roundabout way; you politely nod your head in only one direction and respectfully smile. Little Einstein would make India proud, until you realise that the tiny tot in question, who has tagged along with his grandmother has a problem spelling 'business' but rattles off the latest Hindi songs word for word without a hitch. You suggest that maybe he holds the prospect of being an excellent singer or music producer.

Lady B, if open minded will appreciate your suggestion and also add prophetically that her grandson will be as famous as the lauded veterans of the music industry. If the lady is not so liberal minded, she will look positively insulted at the suggestion, stonily adding that he will only be a doctor, engineer or a civil servant. It seems that these hallowed professions are considered the only respectable careers to attempt. This mindset has hardly changed within eastern India for the last 200 years, even after the British left their telegraph poles, industrialization and law books behind.

Bull Discharge

Writing per se should be an original, worth reading. Well, reading what seems to be deemed "worthy" is what makes writing itself appear subjective. What I may like to read and consider worthwhile is something you might not believe in at all. The result is a niggling, little displeasure at the back of your head, which grows into a full throttle migraine-like headache; if your self has been subject to someone's "worthwhile" pages and pages of utter bull discharged writing that would not even fertilise a weed root.

Talking about bulls and their faecal discharge- well I wonder why sometimes certain facts uttered; end up being termed as nonsense by the listening party, eliciting an explicitly enunciated- "bull*"! So, either we are paying homage to the glorious, ebony coloured, satin-skinned and bulbous nosed deity by sanctifying its discharged roughage; or we are nullifying something existing as concretely as water or maybe the sun. So they do exist; or you do spend your days in a rubber padded room-straight jacketed; or, you have unfortunately crossed over to the other side. So what I meant is that if "bullshit" is signified as equal to nonsense or a vague form of nothingness- then my dear, why don't you stand here for 10 minutes while I coax the bull to defecate on your shoes. The other option is that I empty a whole bucketful on you as proof. In either case, if you do posses the olfactory sense, you would have realised that nature does not make Chanel N 5 for free; or you would have bathed in it literally. And, if you do not possess the sensory organ, then the soft, thick and dark, goop of nutritiously rich manure is being applied on you as the latest bio-degradable version of 'plaster of Paris' for the sake of modern art. Either ways, I DO give you the choice to confirm its existence. Or, you might take the liberty of saying that bullshit or nonsensical equivalence does exist, but only in a parallel dimension. If you insist, give me half an hour to add a bottle of cod liver oil to my pet's digestive canal. If the post cod liver ingested bull and its diuretic discharge on your esteemed soles and broles, elicits a yell, I will simply defend my case saying that what was termed erstwhile nonsense by you, cannot exist in our dimension according to your viewpoint- therefore Q.E.D. If you admit that it does, I will say that it is now as a fragrant and moisturising lotion in the same dimension where you initially thought it existed.

Anyway, it is toast and tea time. Let me know if you would like to smell it or taste it.
I meant buttered toast, of course with my tea. Now, what were you thinking...?