On this Deepavali Night

Let the Festival of Light
remove all darkness from the soul –
each individual’s and collective mankind’s.

Let the Radiant illumine the mind
with power to dream, will to change
and resolve to do what’s right.

Let the light nourish the body,
to fight demons inside and out,
to stand up against all plight.

Let even the smallest diya bring
warmth of the thousand suns to a grieving soul
or that wretched shivering in the cold.

Let the array of lamps lit the way
to health and happiness,
to peace and prosperity.

Let on this very Deepavali night 

and always,
be in the light, be that LIGHT –
be a ray of hope to those astray.

This is my prayer for you and me!

Note: In the spirit of full disclosure, this prayer is  influenced by preaching of Swami Vivekananda.

© 2008 Sanjoy Haldar

Tuesdays with Morrie - Part I

Very recently, I read a comment on Arpit Shah's (Arpit was a summer intern in my department right after his graduation. Now he is a friend, colleague, and an aspiring young writer) on Facebook. His comment was related to death. NeedIess to say, the comment bothered me a bit. Later, when I got an opportunity to talk to him about this, I learned that his comments were his reaction to a book that he was reading. The book is titled Tuesdays with Morrie. I have borrowed the book from him. but before I read it, I wanted to reflect on my own thoughts on the topic. As I read through the pages, I will be adding commentary to this article.

People say that when someone loses a near one, time eventually heals the wound. But does time really heal? I think not. I'm not sure if the scar left by death ever heals. Time is very cruel - it robs us of our memory. In the same manner the winter morning mist obscures the beautiful view across a lake or the dark cloud blackens an otherwise perfectly blue sky.

Have you observed how dust accumulates on a book on the shelf left for long? Somehow I think time steals us of our most prized memories in a similar manner. The fading of the memories lessens the pain.

Or do we get so busy with the rigors of our daily lives that memories of the deceased slowly fade away from our memory? Whatever it is, I don't think that pain of separation caused by death can be eased. The memory just stays in the "backshelf" of one's mind only to be sparkled by triggering events. In Tagore's poem 'Hathath Dekha' (Bengali for Sudden Encounter) the central character of the poem, when asked by his former girfriend after a sudden meeting in a train compartment after decades if there was anything left from their past, so eloquently put it that all the stars of the night live in the deep of the daylight. I am eagerly waiting to read Morrie's lessons after dealing with a terminal illness. To be continued. . .

Reflecting on Durga Puja 2008

This year's Durga Puja is behind us. It is the biggest celebration among the Bengali people. It has evolved from being a religious festival to a socio-cultural phenomenon - a time for joy, fun, and merriment. A time when gifts are exchanged, people get new clothes, travel (because schools and offices are closed) or make capital purchases for their homes with the bonus from employers.

But Durga Puja to me has always brought in mixed emotions. I am always disturbed by the striking contrast of the affluence and extravaganza with which it is celebrated, particularly in and around the metropolitan Calcutta, now Kolkata [the name changed after I had left the country; I find it difficult to say or write Kolkata. I still prefer Calcutta, my birthplace, the city where I had spent my formative years, the city where I moved from childhood to adulthood] and the stark poverty. So much of pomp and grandeur and yet, right outside the glamour of the mandaps [these are temporary structures put up to house the idols of goddess Durga and her four children] is darkness - both real and symbolic. One has to be blind not to see this or be desensitized not to feel it.

Two days before this year's puja, the Nano project [India's effort to come up with the USD 2000 car] moved out of West Bengal. This could have been Bengal's pride. People associated with the project lost their livelihood; some lost all their savings/investment, and most importantly, hope. Mind it; this happened right before the puja - the day when most factory workers typically get their bonuses and do the last minute shopping for their eagerly waiting kids. That one piece of new cloth brings in so much joy. I cried at the plight of these people. I could empathize with these people. I know suffering, the pain of starvation, the indignity of going home empty handed, the misery of deep loss. I only wish Mamata [the political leader behind the failure. Her name is a misnomer. Mamata in Bengali means kindness] had some kindness.

Continue reading...

My dada (the Bengali word for elder brother) sent me an email greetings for the Puja. He rightly characterized the changes in puja celebration these days. The smell of the "Shiuli" flowers (quintessential autumn flower was so common even in the city during this time of the year when we were growing up) is gone. Pizza and pasta have taken over Moghlai Khana (Bengali for royal dish from the Moghul period!?) that we used to savor during the puja days with our pocket money. Globalization and call centers have increased the divide between the rich and the poor. Competition among the local puja organizers is so intense these days that the organizers spend millions of dollars for a simple plaque, for bragging rights for the entire next year. Traditional mandap set-ups are replaced by novel themes representing current world events and trends. Innovation and creativity in material selection (e.g. rice, caps from Coke, etc.), lighting, and every aspect of the celebration. Yet, right outside the puja premise, there may be a poor kid in his tattered clothes sucking on a Popsicle stick thrown away by someone else. This also must be a theme - my dada sighed in his note. Not that this doesn't happen every day but it doesn't get so strikingly exposed. This is what so tormenting, heart wrenching about Durga Puja.

We celebrated Puja in Memphis in our own way - the "Twenty-Twenty" equivalent of Cricket. Life in the fast lane (or is it so? do we small-towner NRIs love to think) forced us to squeeze five days of puja into one and that too after the actual puja is over. Convenience of weekend rules! Idiosyncrasies (where the priest won't do the puja) and availability of rental space all adds to the planning challenge. Despite that, we had fun. And to allow time for the ladies to show their latest acquisitions (Saree and ornaments) there was a "break" between the daytime puja and the evening event. We even had an evening cultural program for the local Bongs to showcase their talent and to claim that they are still in touch with the Bengali culture, often at the cost of completely alienating the audience. It is high time for some of these long time performers to retire. [By the way, why can't we learn from Bengal's pride Sourav who declared his retirement from International Cricket on the day of the Ashtami (8th day of the puja)?]

Since, Durga puja is a time to spend with your family and friends, a deep void in our lives re-surfaced. Moments like these, times of celebrations like this revive the memory of gifts that are lost forever. One craves for that piece of one's heart that is carved out with no treatment known to mankind to heal.

Top right is my reflection in Bengali of how the puja break this year was spent. Click on the image to get a more legible version.
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© 2008 Sanjoy Haldar

Knock, knock in Playa del Carmen

Very recently, we visited the Mayan Riviera. Travelling with us were my friend Anjan, his wife Bitasta and their 3-year old daughter Adrika. She calls me jyaja which is derived from jyethu, meaning uncle in Bengali. This poem is about our interactions in the morning before we would head out of our hotel rooms. Here it goes.

The morning after the ruin visit -
Knock. Knock.
Who's there?
"Mayan ghost," replies a tiny voice,
"We are all Mayan ghosts
except jyaja - he's a doggy!"

We go up and down hwy 307
looking for Xcacel.
Green sea turtle, green sea turtle -
Where can we find you?
The very next morning -
Knock. Knock.
Who's there?
Sea turtle.
Our Mayan ghost is now a sea turtle!

Next stop. Xcaret.
We sample the Mayan theme.
The next morning. Knock. Knock.
Who's there?
Spider monkey.
The turtle turns into a monkey.

Every morning the same routine -
Knock. Knock.
Who's there?
Mayan ghost to sea turtle
Sea turtle to spider monkey.
Innocence and imagination
of a little girl -
Part of my Mayan Riviera experience.

Footnote: the ruin referenced here is Chichen-itza. Xcacel (pronounced Ish-ka-cell) is a Sea Turtle Conservatory. Xcaret (pronounced Shcaret) is an ecological theme park.

© 2008 Sanjoy Haldar

Intersection and Interval

Last evening, I attended the Levitt Shell Concert listening to Bill Evans, Grammy winning saxophonist. It was an incredible experience to listen to a Miles Davis alum in his Soulgrass concert. The name of the concert was befitting as his music interlaced with traditional bluegrass style is really soul searching. His bandmates were also fascinating performers creating an evening of liberating music from multiple genres - jazz, bluegrass and funk. He even did an improvization where his saxophone leads were matched by the violinist. Almost like what one will find in any India classical performance called Jugol Bandi where the lead instrumentalist and his/her accompanist go into an impromptu co-creation.

While physically there, my mind was travelling and I was reflecting upon my life. Intervals and intersections are my favorite time and place respectively because they represent enormous possibility. While there, I jotted the following lines on my Blackberry that I titled "Intersection and interval." Here it goes. . .

At a crossroad -
do you follow your head
or listen to your heart?
Down on the ground -
do you wait for a helping hand
or bounce back on your own?
Your destiny -
do you leave it to chances
or are you making a choice?
Are events in history shaping you
or are you going to shape history?

Where are you heading? Where? Where?
Is your life a destination or a journey?

When dreams are shattered
don't rescind -
dream even bigger,
reach out for the stars!
If promises are broken -
don't withdraw into your shell;
forgive and forget,
love even more with renewed vigor.

At a crossroad -
don't just obey your mind
follow your soul!

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© 2008 Sanjoy Haldar