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Sunday, 21 April 2024
Growing Up: Of all that is "Left!"
It was a large
house – Prabhabati Bhavan,
Prabhabati Bhavan,Cuttack.A Frontal View. |
My Mother Smt Chhaya Banerjee showing her album of childhood photos with Freedom fighters including Subhash Chandra Bose to Pt. Nehru, the then Prime Minister of India. |
Very early the fascination and familiarity
with speeches, crowds, noise, big, untuned mikes, booming voices, pandals and
rostrums et all became grist. Elections for Councillors ward members, Municipal
Councils, Panchayats saw us both, family and friends in the thick of
campaigning, making pranks of childish valour in stone pelting, slogan shouting
and poster pasting by night. As time went by the likes of, Hitler and Churchill
on BBC and sometimes the voice of Netaji (born in Cuttack my native place) on a
Republic or Independence Day from some old retro record stirred memories of a
now forgotten Indian National Army.Khudiram Bose, Azad, Ram Prasad Bismil,
Ram Prasad Bismil was an Indian revolutionary who participated in Mainpuri conspiracy of 1918, and the Kakori conspiracy of 1925, both against British Empire |
and the names of Mujibur,Charu Majumdar,Kanu Sanyal, Jangal Santhal,Kondapalli Sitarammayya, Naxalbari
Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky, sometimes transliterated Dostoevsky, was a Russian novelist, short story writer, essayist and philosopher |
Ho Chi Minh and Giap inspired us and kept alive the righteous rage and purpose. Prejudice, ignorance, chauvinism, anger, impotence, sadness and rage against a perceived impotence of most of our fellowmen: all together- made strange bedfellows and from it was born a politics of the love of the damned. And almost as if in irony and testimony of a troubled mind, a framed photograph of Mao vied for honours on the faded and decrepit walls of my study as against that of my mother with Prime Minister Nehru.
Names many and varied, places mostly
unseen, unknown stories of old, people worthy and simple crowd my memories. A desire
to do something worthy, not for your own self but for the nation and its people
had taken a mesmeric hold. This was a childhood that I treasure. Along the way
I have seen many things and not understood all. Many years have gone by, since.
Having passed college and worked in the Armed Forces for over two and half
decades, I am but sixty years of age today and done very little until…
The
Third of June Twenty Thousand and Fourteen at around 1400hrs…
Mostly college going students from , some girls and more
boys started dropping in first, as a disappointed trickle until and then with
time to became full. One could also notice a few like me, with many white hairs
and wrinkled faces. A few hundred shall we say gathered. One did not see too
many of the famously new youth and pleasantly did not hear too much of the
spoken English, either. The earthy smell of the unventilated and murkily lit PG
rooms of unfamiliar and unpopular alleyways spread like the common gulmohars on
a hot summer afternoon. Unkempt and sparse, the hall did not seem to have or
show the efficiency or organisation of money and modern management. Rather an
awkward and unparticipative ennui pervaded the atmosphere for a while. Lazy and
languid. Come around 3 pm instead of the promised 2.30 a certain movement,
non-descript but purposeful. The rostrum mikes and the banner announcing the
event, participants but no sponsors non- typically comes alive. All present
almost suddenly astir, eager and anxious a collection of the very best in
social activism representing their many organisations or their individual
selves remain seated in anonymous corners or rows. But all gathered in
solidarity for once or more: seeking the unconditional release of Dr D N
Saibaba.In the background a large photograph of the Mahatma eyes closed looking
down almost symbolically, hangs desolate and seldom cared for while handful of
policeman laze on the scattered chairs, just outside on the veranda, unsure of
their purpose or calling.
I remain seated wondering about my own
presence in their midst ridden with conflicting emotions of belonging and
strangeness. But, very sure that I wanted to be there and an overpowering
desire to hear and witness some who had so courageously left their homes and kindred
for their oppressed brothers and sisters living and dying quite faraway and
sometimes even taken away from your urban neighbourhoods even while one was
awake. And feeling guilty, I was, for enjoying life’s many pleasures. That is
all.
The moderator, a fiery, thin and rather
tall youth in kurta and jeans rose to the rostrum and announced the solemn
purpose and programme of the meeting: Democracy and Dissent: Understanding the
Abduction and Arrest of Dr G N Saibaba. His energy, rousing stentorian voice
and modulation, commitment and near professional thumb lines to introduce each
speaker provided a fitting start at all times. He was ably assisted in this by
another friendly and domesticated looking lady of the South, slightly heavy in parts,
trying to make her Hindi not to be misunderstood for what she was not saying
with a generous helping of English, every once in a while. As for the audience,
instant and silent participation to the proceedings, gave it the sombre dignity
it deserved. Hindi was to be the language of all talks proposed was conveyed
and agreed to as if by some telepathy between two friendly parties: the speaker
and audience.
Many speakers came and spoke. Sumit
Chakravarti,Editor Mainstream,Com.Aparna,Raghu Ram,Com. Seema Azad.All in enraged
tones of the return of the dark days of yore staring right into their eyes, the
difference or their lack of between Congress and the BJP, the rise of Modi and
the utter inhumanity shown in the repression of the just struggles of the
people, Dalits and tribal in particular in the forests, hills and mineral rich
areas of the so-called Red corridor, the draconian laws like the UAPA,AFSPA and
the extra-judicial conduct of the men in uniform.etc.But there was one young
lawyer of the Supreme Court from Maharastra who caught an unsuspecting ear with
a cynical but critical observation by highlighting that Gadchiroli and its
common folk would feel short-changed if all these protests, seminars and
meetings against oppression do not include their anonymous and yet untold
struggles against torture and suffering in unknown jails for want of
urban admirers.
Their names were unrecorded like their births and had none to sing for their silent and unheard cries.Com.Aparna was scintillating and inspiring in her chaste and comfortable Hindi while Com. Seema Azad
Their names were unrecorded like their births and had none to sing for their silent and unheard cries.Com.Aparna was scintillating and inspiring in her chaste and comfortable Hindi while Com. Seema Azad
Seema Azad activist-journalist |
In
came Varavara Rao
To add to this rather eminent gathering of
speakers walked in the ever fascinating and enigmatic Arundhati Roy amidst
cheers and enthusiastic clapping. A saree clad, short-haired with a generous
sprinkling of the white, dimunitive, frail woman looking delicate and a little
tired climbed up to the rostrum and spoke in Hindi. I was a trifle surprised,
pleasantly at that, for I thought she perhaps, could not. And hence, choose not
to speak in Hindi. In a small way it told me how very far and away was I from
people who are common while being extraordinary. She spoke the commonality of
the agenda of the Congress and the BJP,only the latter would now open the flood
gates of de-licencing,complete takeover
of the media by the corporate, politician and rich business combine, easing
regulations on environmental protection,FDI, handing over land at throwaway
prices in total disregard of the landless and the poor, impose the colonial set
of oppressive laws like POTA,AFSPA,UAPA in a systematic and methodical way of
which the abduction was but a horrible example.
Importantly, she warned the disenfranchised
to remain strong, united and fearless for the dark days of a different kind
were round the corner, sharper and bloodier conflicts with the emboldening and
realignment of the rightist, conservative forces. The spectre of a neo-liberal
world and the project to create a new, bad world was there in the lurking shadows!
They should prepare themselves against the thought control measures being
adopted, of a mind under siege where there would be no more discussions,
inquiries, questions on any issue, leave alone, protest. Disinformation and
newer ideological onslaughts would be the new war just like the whole of the
Muslim world were busy squabbling on being Sunni or Shia and laying to waste
some of the oldest cultures of the world rather than countering the real
inimical forces originating from the west and recognising the real questions of
conflict and strategy. She was appalled by the repetition of colonial
strategies of military deployment even to this day wherein a Kashmiri was
deployed in Dandakaranaya and vice versa essentially to divide and rule just
like before. You fight your own !Nothing really has changed and we are still faraway from being free .A group
of five followed up this heavy, sobering
and challenging deliberation with a rousing singing chorus in Haryanvi mocking
the hanging of a Bhagat Singh in the past with today as the crowd gradually
thinned out.
Questions lingered on in my mind quite late
into the night and carried on to the following days of the simmering hot summer.
A new government backed by an unprecedented majority had taken charge with
promises plenty made, yet again. The people were looking at it with great hope
and excitement. The script for the future was neat and the Bogey man with a
clear voice, Modi had sounded the bugle of all-inclusive growth, development with
scrupulous and speedy execution. The defeated shook their tired heads in
disbelief as news of a Muslim being killed by a rabid and bigoted mob of
another community, a dedicated NGO and a selected individual, (to set, but an
example) being hounded for anti-national activity and illegal foreign- funding
and of course unrestricted de-regulation in matters of environment and forest
clearances started trickling in with an ominous regularity even before the new
government had quite opened its books, so to speak..
With so much of the use or abuse of law for
devious ends, so much of insecurity and the irresponsible use of power to
silence dissent and criticism, I wondered if the politics of the over ground
was at all possible? Were then all these multifarious organisations with
seemingly different agendas and methodologies of action too ambitious but
unfortunately weak to resist and overcome such challenges made by the
authorised representatives of the State? Was it then that the hope of many
streams coming to the sea in the end but a false dream? How would an unarmed
man fight the terror of organised violence against the might of the state? Was
Satyagraha and non-violent action of any consequence, today? Or from the ashes
of gandhism and the lessons learnt from the fighting brotherhood in the jungles
of Gadhchiroli,Bastar,Bijapur,Arrah,Lalgarh,Dandakaranya or from the far-off
jungles of ,,
and
resist and be organised in urban areas too and eschew completely the hope of a
non-violent transition for an egalitarian society? Discussions and training on
how to identify organise and resist calculated violence visible or otherwise to
protect human rights in a neo-liberal, pro-rich, consumerist and globalised
world would be more realistic approach than the periodic and sadly, ritualistic
cry of betrayal each time the predictable, despicable act against the
disenfranchised happen.
Other than being not so sure on the
question of Violence I always felt guilty for being one in the army uniform for
the better part of my life? Was I then one who naturally was against people who
claimed and fought for their rights? Killed and hurt while following orders,
never questioning the rightness of the direction, ever? Like many others who
serve the government for a salary, being a law abiding, patriotic citizen how
was this wrong. Yes we were the visible hand of violence. But what of the
millions of others, clerks, teachers,intelligentsia,bank officials, doctors,
engineers, scientists etc who unseen put to effect all government fiats in
villages, cities, towns, rivers, forests daily and each time? Are they all a
mere cog in the wheel? And if so what is their redemption?
I know .Better and stronger people have
given much thought and shed enough blood for a real and truly free ,
while with each passing day I still wonder in impotent rage at all that I do or
do not!
http://www.caravanmagazine.in/vantage/why-i-left Check this link too along with the Comments Section
|
Prabhabati Bhavan :To a Manner Born
The first view upon entering the sanctum sanctorum.The flanks are not in the scope of this frontal shot. |
“Prabhabati Bhavan” named after the grandmother stands on the eastern side of Cuttack,in the State of Odisha quite close to river Kathajuri, (the wooden Bridge) a tributary of the river Mahanadi.
The saga enters a new era….Gen X….
A space secular it is and that is how I remember today. Friend and the disgruntled, struggler or survivor, the well-heeled or the less fortunate, politician or a has-been, musical or the vagrant, the gumasta or the bhag chasi, the keuooto or the dhobi all entered its ancient portals for succor and joy or some minutes nay hours of relief..There was not much but so much to share…Values of simplicity, gratitude and sharing were learnt by practice, of which -my parents, friends and family were a great example. It was a “muhalla” of sorts. Everyone was family. Haricharan Banerjee, a lawyer of substance kept the good work going while his son Pashupati Banerjee a lesser clerk in the courts held the property and family together.Come, the Second World War and the chaos and deprivation of the Bengal Famine there was an opportunity for the quick witted and not overly conscientious for some easy money to be made on the sly in cheap Chinese silks, parachute fabric and canvas cloth and some on- the- side business deals in grocery, rice and jute. Feudal social relations still prevailed and much revenue from the newly acquired lands was not there to be made. No decent investment was made in seeds, home grown fertilisers or pumping water. Rain, the godsend was the only redemption. They never touched the plough or soiled the hands growing anything. It was all about the “Gomasta” (Estate Manager)”“bhagchasi’(sharecropper or land- tenant) who paid in kind or a certain agreed upon fee for his labours. This varied from one-third to half at different times. Often times compensation was realised through an intricate and familial system of bonded labour in which one or more of the manager’s family permanently was loaned to the master’s city house.
Life was quiet and peaceful other than an occasional protest for more wages or inability to pay the agreed amount in time or sometimes the medical complications of childbirth. The Banerjees watched from the wings while the freedom struggle raged .Madhusudan Das,Gopabandhu,Naba Krushna Choudhary, Hare krushna Mahatab, Rama Devi, the political firebrands and their kind were the stuff of light hearted conversations or stories read from illegible hand bills to be gossiped on lazy afternoons over clinking cups of tea and” Mudi with Teley Bhaza” ( a mix of fluffed rice with fried onions or potatoes ) .It was quite another matter that Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose studied from a famous nearby school called Ravenshaw Collegiate and the pioneer freedom fighter and Bengali Gour Shanker Roy lived not too far away. But the difficult days ahead was there for all to see.
India became independent in 1947 and around this time momentous changes were happening at Prabhabati Bhavan.The scattered and discrete parts of this space owned by various scions of the family got slowly but surely unified.Jayananda and Nityananda Banerjee the sons of Pashupati Banerjee managed to become the sole proprietors.
Maa and Baba who made all this happen .Jayananda Banerjee and Chayya Banerjee nee Chakravarty |
All this, however, was largely due to the marriage of Jayananda to one Chhaya Chakravarty of Basti, Uttar Pradesh. A feisty and remarkably modern woman for her times she quickly saw and understood the inertia, sloth and lack of organisation in the family. She changed everything. In her mid twenties then, having learnt Oriya and with an understanding and self-effacing husband in tow she sorted out most pending land litigations, rubbed shoulders with senior Congress politicians impressing them no end while in the lead of many Community Development Projects set in motion by Pt Nehru in rural areas.(It may be recalled that the Bhoodan Movement and the Praja Socialist Party during these times were aggressive with their campaign for land reforms and anti-zemindari program and quite the bete noire of the Congress Party.)
Maa with Pt Nehru sometime in the very early sixties. |
Jayananda was fortunate that his only elder brother Nityananda was unmarried and the latter bequeathed all or most of his share to the eldest son Swadhin Banerjee. Jayananda had four sons and two daughters who grew up with friends and family in this rather big house which had been finally unified tactfully and sometimes freckled with suffering caused by the delay and frustrations of an archaic and slow moving courthouse. In this fateful resolution of organising the properties, Chayya Banerjee stood tall through her uncanny but supreme perseverance.
Never one to rest, her obsession to do some social good spurred her on to conceive in the mid sixties from within the premises of Prabhabati Bhavan, the Haricharan Banerjee Municipality Lower Primary School in the early Sixties( it stands even today at a nearby location with the prefix Haricharan Banerjee dropped though ) to provide free education for lesser privileged in the the neighbourhood of Dhobis,(washermen) keootos (fishermen) and goudas (milkmen), and the Nritya Niketan to encourage and nurture the artistically talented..Nabin bhai, Manu Da, Prafulla Kar, numerous vocalists and dancers who went on to earn subsequent fame were some of its illustrious alumni.
No story would be complete however without a mention of the religious fervour and ritual intensive flavour that the house was wrapped in from the late sixties while all these socio-cultural activities were on.
Swami Ram Kripal Dasji a.k.a Bada da with Maa,Badadidi,Sunuda,Behenji among other devotees |
Swami Ram Kripal Dasji a sadhu (practicing mendicant) from Chirbasa, Gangotri then Uttar Pradesh had asked one of his disciples Mr Chakravarty, then in Nainital that he wished to visit Jagannath Dham Puri as a part of his religious pilgrimage itinerary and as desired by his Guru .Mr Chakravarty immediately referred Ram Kripal Baba to unhesitatingly seek the hospitality of Prabhabati Bhavan where his younger sister Chhaya Banerjee lived by marriage and could boast of a few connections. Thus began a long and continuing association of the Yogi and the Zemindar.Chants, prayers, loud and soulful bhajans in chorus the fragrant incense sticks, smell of fresh flowers, fresh clothes, the continuous rush to the bathrooms for an early bath, the never ending stream of the devout, ringing bells, clanging gongs and the mesmerising sound of conch shells all together had transformed the house into a public temple for the spiritually starved. The Banerjees in particular were having their first real taste (Or more correctly a feast?) at another level - of religion and spirituality. It was this doing perhaps that gave this rather unwieldy family a certain common direction and godly mooring. Much of the ubiquitous and complex contradictions that were manifest in this Bengali household had this bit added to its already fascinating platter. Today, Swami Ram Kripal Dasji is the fond Bada da (Eldest brother) to the Banerjee family by common weal.
It was around this time she won the Congress ticket to contest from Banki the village we belonged to. The then Prime Minister Indira Gandhi came to campaign for this unusual woman, too.
Maa with Mrs Indira Gandhi when she was the prime Minister in the late sixties
Sadly, she lost this election contest. The house by then had also transformed itself into a rich nursery for many an aspiring student, politician and job seekers. The likes of Sailabala Patnaik, Mausi of Dagarpara, Rama Devi, Pradumna BAL, Kuna Bhai, Gopal Kar, Sethi, Jena, Bagchi, Bijoy Chakravarty etc spent many of their lonely and hungry hours and days at this house. It never failed the aspirant: pretty much from any walk of life. In all of this Jayananda was the perfect foil – a devoted co-traveller silent and ever encouraging while Panchua the Man Friday, the youngest of the Gomasta family of the Banerjees at Banki who can happily take credit for having groomed the entire family selflessly and with scant reward: what with the woman of the house being kept busy for matters more serious.
Interestingly, not much income was being generated. Rentals and the earnings of the fast vanishing agricultural land was all that was there. Frequent selling of small and sometimes large pieces of land kept happening to keep the family afloat. The luxuries and profligacy of a “Jalsaghar” was good to see on the silver screen alone. The Zemindari had long since become just another word. How the house and its expenses were managed would be just another guess. Perhaps! And it is this uncomfortable truth that stood in sharp contrast to the bonhomie and ‘bhoji’ (feast) culture the house seemed to symbolise. Would that then be the mystique and allure of all that was decaying, dying or dead?
A space secular it is and that is how I remember today. Friend and the stranger alike, struggler or survivor, the well-heeled or the less fortunate, politician , a has-been, musical or the vagrant, the Gomasta (rent-collector)or the bhag chasi,(share cropper) the keuooto, gauda or the dhoba all entered its ancient portals for succour and joy or some minutes nay hours of relief..There was not much but so much to share…Values of simplicity, gratitude and bonding were learnt by practice, of which -my parents, friends and family were a great example. It was a “muhalla” (tenement) of sorts. Everyone was family.
It is here that we flew kites, played marbles, “gucchi tandu,”” saat khapra” and “chor police”.Cricket was played with cork balls and hockey with broken cricket bats. Hockey sticks later came from Meerut city and some cheap pads after great cajoling. In the backyard- yes, many a hand and head was broken or bruised plucking and stealing guavas, mangoes, jamun, drumsticks and Musambhis, bel.Cricket with Tennis balls was too sissy then. Games were for real…many an intrigue that felled the local bad boys had their wicked seeds sown here too.
It is here that so many childhoods were nurtured with joy and abandon.
The two elder sisters Merina and Alina (from L to R)
Marriages with much festivity were held to see off the eldest daughter Merina
From L to R :Sunuda( the eldest son-in-law),Tuhin,Sukumar,Shivaram,Dada and yours truly Sunil
to distant Lucknow as she became a part of the Chatterjees while
Swadhin
Dada and Boudi of Howrah
the eldest of the family brought home a nubile and shy Bengali girl from neighbouring Howrah.Alina the younger of the sisters but third in lineage chugged away for her nuptials to Behala in Calcutta to become a Mukherjee.
Shankerda (the second and youngest son-in-law) with Dada and Tokon
The parents had done their bit to cut the umbilical cord of dependence and the new grown-ups were on their own for once. A well deserved rest for the parents there never was any and quite sadly so. At about this time Sukumar, Sunil and Sarat the last three of the family of six in their teens were still deciding whether to wear the shorts or trousers to school.
cha cha cha of the late sixties with from L to R lalu,pappu,Tokon and Nilu on the terrace of Gopiram's house. |
Friends many thronged the busy and noisy household. Shankerbhai or affectionately Lobadiya a gangling sweetheart enthralled with his skills in Carrom,flying kites and playing cards while the ever-faithful and dependable Tokon remained the precocious adviser for all.Pappu,the little taciturn Bihari showed early signs of his ingenuity and inventiveness while patiently bearing many a taunt and tease.
suku, sunil,gopi and Pappu
Gopi remained the bewildering Marwari gifted and talented offering his home of plenty for the hungry and sometimes greedy friends.Subuda became a part after having joined this very merry band of scrawny kids, bit later than others, to be the muscle of the growing and very pretentious brat pack.
From Left to right (Sukumar,Mamaji,Tokon,Pappu,Dula,nilu and gopi :The brat pack)
Debjani, Alakananda,Ashima,Golap,Neetu ,Krishnadi, were the sister’s girlfriends we saw while peeping through the cracks of faded windows and doors. The tenants for their part shared happily their spaces with lip smacking native delicacies to eat, tales and folklore, country tunes and their time.Behenji with her consistent struggle, Masterji teaching the students to a sing song rote pattern, their intelligent children were a constant source of inspiration and a firm reminder of how difficult life could get. Susila Masi, Gokul Babu, Bharti Jaisukh, Ramoo, Jeetu, Sabita masi, later followed by Manjula masi made many a festival a celebration to be remembered. They were Gujarat’s who had emigrated from Gujarat trying to make a living out of their their business skills in silver jewellery. Lakhan da and Boudi were the Bengali goldsmiths from neighbouring MIdnapore who completed the caboodle. The tenants were a heterogeneous bunch from different communities primarily migrants from the states of Gujarat, Bihar and Bengal. Their sons and daughters always joined in to make the much desired numbers required for every game and it was all such Babel of fun. It was one jungle, where all animals and birds seemed to live contented albeit with an occasional scratch and a scar.
This house, nay home of and for all belongs to none. Prabhabati Bhavan in more senses than one is but an idea of a place, time, context, conditions and most importantly people. It is no land or territory that is to be possessed or owned - for boundaries it has, but, none.suku, sunil,gopi and Pappu
Gopi remained the bewildering Marwari gifted and talented offering his home of plenty for the hungry and sometimes greedy friends.Subuda became a part after having joined this very merry band of scrawny kids, bit later than others, to be the muscle of the growing and very pretentious brat pack.
From Left to right (Sukumar,Mamaji,Tokon,Pappu,Dula,nilu and gopi :The brat pack)
Debjani, Alakananda,Ashima,Golap,Neetu ,Krishnadi, were the sister’s girlfriends we saw while peeping through the cracks of faded windows and doors. The tenants for their part shared happily their spaces with lip smacking native delicacies to eat, tales and folklore, country tunes and their time.Behenji with her consistent struggle, Masterji teaching the students to a sing song rote pattern, their intelligent children were a constant source of inspiration and a firm reminder of how difficult life could get. Susila Masi, Gokul Babu, Bharti Jaisukh, Ramoo, Jeetu, Sabita masi, later followed by Manjula masi made many a festival a celebration to be remembered. They were Gujarat’s who had emigrated from Gujarat trying to make a living out of their their business skills in silver jewellery. Lakhan da and Boudi were the Bengali goldsmiths from neighbouring MIdnapore who completed the caboodle. The tenants were a heterogeneous bunch from different communities primarily migrants from the states of Gujarat, Bihar and Bengal. Their sons and daughters always joined in to make the much desired numbers required for every game and it was all such Babel of fun. It was one jungle, where all animals and birds seemed to live contented albeit with an occasional scratch and a scar.
Some of the reminiscences are part guess and part imagination, Time and memory play truant. Truth to tell fact and fiction together conspires to make this merry tale. No worries though. This is, after all work in progress. There are many spaces left. Not many names taken. I hope, in time with more memories to cherish fonder hearts shall write in to fill the dots…Many tales will be there to tell. And many shall be told by these and such other fellow travellers who warm the cockles of their hearts today listening...
P.S.
What A Voice : An Ode to Barry White
If you have been having a look at our covers you may have noted the many words or adjectives usually used to describe a voice. Chuckled, you would have, when several of them were more than familiar and part of the regular vocab. And then comes this one called Barry White and the first thing you call out half shrieking and half choked, running out of the shower half-clothed - What a voice!
The romantic songs of Barry like “Just a Little Bit More” “Ecstasy (When You Lay down Next to me)”Your Sweetness Is My Weakness) among many others were the chosen ones of all those who once thought they were in love. His voice was rich, fresh and boom! Wickedly, he quite knew it, always-when very young.
Like most ambitious and self made talents he never wanted to be just a singer.”You get into trouble and the voice is not enough,” he had also always realized within and feared. He furthered his knowledge and skills of the studio by perfecting his writing and arranging skills and went on to become a successful producer. He learnt to play many instruments. Imagine him, yet, to be so vulnerable: the voice raved to be “thunder and silk”! People adored him; awards and recognition were too many to be remembered. So were his names from Dr Love to the Prince of Pillow Talk. He was the Lord of Discos in the 70’s to the Slow Jam king of 90’s with the deep- bass- velvet- feel voice of his.
Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata had swept him off his feet after the early lessons from the age of four he had received from his Mama and the phonograph, on sonatas, symphonies and melodies. He had begun to play the piano too and then as juvenile he went to jail. He came out as a man, as her Mama said and the school boy treble voice of Barry had changed forever to that of a heavy bass, male. His struggles took him to succeed finally with his group Love Unlimited. He had a way with women and knew a thing or two about sex though not very successful with marriages. Modesty was certainly not one of his strong points either.
You hear the Disco of Donna Summers or Abba or the Bee Gees. You dance. You hear Barry. You want to make love. His lyrics were direct: kind of face to face talking with another in a voice that seduced and made you swoon. Adrion Doovey was quoted in Jet thus “When he sings, strong men tremble and ladies are transported up the stairway of unparalled ecstasy,” and children “they say are often conceived that very night”. But the seventies Disco was to wither away and Barry knew it and through the eighties he mastered technology and getting ready to create a new sound. The drum should not sound like one. And so the piano, he had once famously prognosticated. He poured into synthesizers, computers, new fangled drum machines and programmers with piles of books. He mixed with and welcomed the new kids of the block filtered their anger and violence to produce a layered sound of slow raps over hip hop beats.R&B had found a new champion who was perhaps a shade bit ahead of the prevailing culture of the time. He was corpulent and huge, yet a highly sexualized figure in the age of disco,who just as easily morphed to become the god of Soul !
Sue Caroll gushed once upon seeing a man seated Buddha-like in a black velvet track suit… then the voice.”It starts as a rumble in his chest, it growls at the back of his throat, and then erupts like a volcano. It’s deep. It is dark. It is “Come to bed honey. Turn off the lights. It’s why this man-no oil painting- was called ,the King of Seduction “ Using his vocal chords, like instruments of sexual pleasure he does not so much sing as groan and moan his way through lyrics until finally, he explodes into a frenzy of passion and ooh..Lurve “
The romantic songs of Barry like “Just a Little Bit More” “Ecstasy (When You Lay down Next to me)”Your Sweetness Is My Weakness) among many others were the chosen ones of all those who once thought they were in love. His voice was rich, fresh and boom! Wickedly, he quite knew it, always-when very young.
Like most ambitious and self made talents he never wanted to be just a singer.”You get into trouble and the voice is not enough,” he had also always realized within and feared. He furthered his knowledge and skills of the studio by perfecting his writing and arranging skills and went on to become a successful producer. He learnt to play many instruments. Imagine him, yet, to be so vulnerable: the voice raved to be “thunder and silk”! People adored him; awards and recognition were too many to be remembered. So were his names from Dr Love to the Prince of Pillow Talk. He was the Lord of Discos in the 70’s to the Slow Jam king of 90’s with the deep- bass- velvet- feel voice of his.
Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata had swept him off his feet after the early lessons from the age of four he had received from his Mama and the phonograph, on sonatas, symphonies and melodies. He had begun to play the piano too and then as juvenile he went to jail. He came out as a man, as her Mama said and the school boy treble voice of Barry had changed forever to that of a heavy bass, male. His struggles took him to succeed finally with his group Love Unlimited. He had a way with women and knew a thing or two about sex though not very successful with marriages. Modesty was certainly not one of his strong points either.
You hear the Disco of Donna Summers or Abba or the Bee Gees. You dance. You hear Barry. You want to make love. His lyrics were direct: kind of face to face talking with another in a voice that seduced and made you swoon. Adrion Doovey was quoted in Jet thus “When he sings, strong men tremble and ladies are transported up the stairway of unparalled ecstasy,” and children “they say are often conceived that very night”. But the seventies Disco was to wither away and Barry knew it and through the eighties he mastered technology and getting ready to create a new sound. The drum should not sound like one. And so the piano, he had once famously prognosticated. He poured into synthesizers, computers, new fangled drum machines and programmers with piles of books. He mixed with and welcomed the new kids of the block filtered their anger and violence to produce a layered sound of slow raps over hip hop beats.R&B had found a new champion who was perhaps a shade bit ahead of the prevailing culture of the time. He was corpulent and huge, yet a highly sexualized figure in the age of disco,who just as easily morphed to become the god of Soul !
Sue Caroll gushed once upon seeing a man seated Buddha-like in a black velvet track suit… then the voice.”It starts as a rumble in his chest, it growls at the back of his throat, and then erupts like a volcano. It’s deep. It is dark. It is “Come to bed honey. Turn off the lights. It’s why this man-no oil painting- was called ,the King of Seduction “ Using his vocal chords, like instruments of sexual pleasure he does not so much sing as groan and moan his way through lyrics until finally, he explodes into a frenzy of passion and ooh..Lurve “
As she said of Her !
The night flower Nishi Padma or Brahma kamal, the sacred plant has bloomed.The mother is pleased. |
Excerpted..
“If I should have a daughter…“Instead of “Mom”, she’s gonna call me “Point B.” Because that way, she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I’m going to paint the solar system on the back of her hands so that she has to learn the entire universe before she can say “Oh, I know that like the back of my hand.”
She’s gonna learn that this life will hit you, hard, in the face, wait for you to get back up so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by band-aids or poetry, so the first time she realizes that Wonder-woman isn’t coming, I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to wear the cape all by herself. Because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I’ve tried.
Maa at the presiding deity of Cuttack : Cuttack Chandi. |
Kataka Chandi where all devouts offer prayers and Lamps in respectful homage. |
A fullfilled mother walks out of Cuttack Chandi after paying her obeisances. |
But I know that she will anyway, so instead I’ll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boats nearby, ‘cause there is no heartbreak that chocolate can’t fix. Okay, there’s a few heartbreaks chocolate can’t fix. But that’s what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything if you let it.
I want her to see the world through the underside of a glass bottom boat, to look through a magnifying glass at the galaxies that exist on the pin point of a human mind. Because that’s how my mom taught me.
On 5th of september she celebrates her birthday each year.She has been doing it for over 90 years. |
the rains evoke a sense of the child in all of us |
and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say “thank you,” ‘cause there is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it’s sent away.
You will put the “wind” in win some lose some, you will put the “star” in starting over and over, and no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life.
And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting I am pretty damn naive but I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it.
“Baby,” I’ll tell her “remember your mama is a worrier but your papa is a warrior and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.”
Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things and always apologize when you’ve done something wrong but don’t you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining.
Your voice is small but don’t ever stop singing and when they finally hand you heartbreak, slip hatred and war under your doorstep and hand you hand-outs on street corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.”
― Sarah Kay
The verdict on Ayodhya: a historian's perspective - The Hindu
What happened in history, happened. It cannot be changed. But we can learn to understand what happened in its fuller context and strive to look at it on the basis of reliable evidence. We cannot change the past to justify the politics of the present. The verdict has annulled respect for history and seeks to replace history with religious faith. True reconciliation can only come when there is confidence that the law in this country bases itself not just on faith and belief, but on evidence.
The verdict on Ayodhya: a historian's perspective - The Hindu
Ambanis : All about Gas?
That Caravan has done a yeoman's service for the public in this very detailed expose on the murky goings on in the Petroleum Industry is undeniable. One is naturally tempted to see an unholy thread stitching the recent accusations of Kejriwal, the strange silence on the book Gas Wars, take over of various written and audio-visual media channels by the Ambanis, the recent record-making electoral victory of Modi and the BJP together, the otherwise pugnacious media removing their gloves on hearing a Reliance owned Aston Martin crashing against two cars in Peddar Road, Mumbai. The scale and depth of the research would interest many, invite the professional to delve deeper and evaluate its veracity and most importantly to instill hope in flagging hearts for there are still honest and bold commentators and researchers who keep the thin fig-leaf of freedom of expression and investigative journalism alive and fluttering. That social, political and economic activism has been pushed to the mountains and tribal areas with no takers are common knowledge, too.They exist outside of the constitution. In this light and context, alone these articles border the revolutionary and heroic.
It shall be not my purpose here to comment or opine on the contents of the detailed article for it is better left to those who quite understand the subject and are professionals, (which I am not, surely). As a public spirited citizen however, it shall be my chosen course to bring to attention of many to be not easily impressed by the Antilla’s that the insanely rich and successful reside in and to endeavour to find credence in the prescient sense of Balzac for having said that behind all wealth lurks a crime.
I can only recall with a great degree of sadness at the clout exercised by both the brothers and their ilk of which first a vitriolic Arundhati Roy and then a, more conservative Gopal Gandhi went on to elaborate. "Wealth has been concentrated in fewer and fewer hands," Roy
tells the Georgia Straight by phone from New York. "And these few corporations now run the country and, in some ways, run the political parties. They run the media."The Delhi-based novelist and nonfiction writer argues that this is having devastating consequences for hundreds of millions of the poorest people in India, not to mention the middle class.
You only confirm what they had already alleged.BJP does by day what Congress does by night. And the 60-40 argument of Arundhati Roy is the cherry on the cake.Ambani's the shrewd businessmen that they are pay in that ratio to the parties in power or in opposition-i.e. by turns, Congress or the BJP. Rockefeller Foundation controlled, penetrated and funded many times the State and Intelligence Departments of America. She says Tatas have been aping these strategies for long.Ambani’s are just carrying on with the dirty ways. "Slowly, they decide the curriculum," Roy maintains. "They control the public imagination. As public money gets pulled out of health care and education and all of this, NGOs funded by these major financial corporations and other kinds of financial instruments move in, doing the work that missionaries used to do during colonialism—giving the impression of being charitable organizations, but actually preparing the world for the free markets of corporate capital."A kind of ‘perception management’.
On April 14th 2014the erstwhile Petroleum Secretary T N R Rao’s prophetic question on why up till now the book on Gas Wars: Crony Capitalism and the Ambanis by Prananjoy Guha Thakurta had not been dumped was answered on 15th April 2014, the following day when a legal notice was served on the authors, various distributors and the Publishers by the legal reps. Of the Ambanis. Interestingly, most of the media stayed away from commenting while conversely, their enthusiasm in discussing Batra on Wendy Doniger's book on Hinduism,Sanjay Baru's The Accidental Prime Minister and PCParakh’s Crusade or Conspirator was obsequious and servile to say the least and went on to confirm the unwritten writ of the Ambanis. In 1998 Hamish Macdonald’s book on ‘Dhirubhai Ambani-the Polyester Prince’ was not sold in India and later reappeared after some years minus a few key chapters: the result of the Ambanis being chary of any kind of criticism. It is against this background also that the media incarceration of Arvind Kejriwal and subsequent failure at the hustings needs to be seen.
http://thehoot.org/web/The-Ambanis-and-the-freedom-of-expression/7456-1-1-9-true.html
Readers must be intrigued, nay bemused what calls to script and make this kind of laundry list on the Ambanis .Quite simply, all these events have been in the news and out of it. The public still need to be told by whatever means possible to see the connects between the stories, the power of the deceit and fraud of the corporate against public interests that are committed regularly with the knowledge, sanction and active collusion of political parties, ministers like Moily, Satish Sharma and Deora and pliant senior bureaucrats and technical officials. The case for conscientious objectors in politics and authority would rightfully go to also former ministers such as Mani Shanker Aiyer and Jaipal Reddy in this regard. Exploring oil is a costly enterprise. But it is a national resource. How much of it is available today, what should be its rightful price both for exploration and selling, who should be doing it as a private player are all questions that the Indian public have a right to know. And in that if a certain Ambani, gold plated the prices, bought and poached away talent from pristine governmental institutions to cause their ruin and manipulate prices for unfair advantage through compromised people in authority, then matters are grave that call for the highest scrutiny and convictions as the case might be.It is for the public therefore, to determine the real patriots and heroes and call to book the new-traitors who pass off as nation builders instead.
For all those who want to dig deep.Read
http://www.caravanmagazine.in/reportage/rigged
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