It was a large
house – Prabhabati Bhavan,
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| Prabhabati Bhavan,Cuttack.A Frontal View. |
where we all lived. Father, mother, paternal uncle, and
a family of six (four brothers and two sisters) and that saviour of
all houses: Man Friday or the more politically correct, Estate Manager Panchua.
A man for all seasons, he was. My mother was a practicing politician of the
undivided Congress party and a woman much ahead of her times, feisty with a
mind of her own. As far as I remember, it was 1961. Perhaps when Nehru came to for
inaugurating the AICC session and Biju Pattanayak was the Chief Minister.
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| 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. |
The
spectre of ’s
China War loomed large on the horizon. I was very young, a child you may say. A
constant coming and going at home of strangers, friends and family kept me
wondering what it was all about. The home or house, call what you choose was a
melting pot of animated and gregarious confusion. It was in this social milieu that
my first awakenings to politics began.
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,
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| Ram Prasad Bismil was an Indian revolutionary who participated in Mainpuri conspiracy of 1918, and the Kakori conspiracy of 1925, both against British Empire |
Ashfaq, lahiri of the Kakori Conspiracy case, Bhagat Singh, Sukhdev, Batukeswar
Dutt, Shah Nawaz Khan, Capt. Laxmi Bai were my heroes of the Freedom movement.
Gandhi and Nehru were mere collaborators of the British who got us a
manipulated freedom. Films like Shaheed, Upkar and Bridge on the River Kwai,
street dramas or “Jatras” on Surya Sen
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| Surya Sen was a Bengali freedom fighter who is noted for leading the 1930 Chittagong armoury raid In Chittagong of Bengal in British India. Sen was a school teacher by profession and was popularly called as Master Da |
and Raja Ram Mohan Roy,Vivekananda.Movies of Mrinal Sen,Ritwick Ghatak and Ray reminded
us of our glorious past and question the two-faced morality and rapacity of the
Victors – both the British and the new Indian Masters the Congress. I had not
read very many books save devouring every single newspaper or magazine that I
could lay my hands upon. I could not read Bengali for which I am still the poorer.Rabindranath;
Ishwar Chandra Vidysagar, Michael Madhusudan or Bankim Chandra never became my
natural vocabulary. It was always borrowed or translated. Strangely, it was
English language that gave me my eyes and it was that, which I hated always.
Tales of Karna, Bali, Ravana and Duryodhana and not of Arjuna, Krishna, Rama or
Bhima from Mahabharata and Ramayana,
 |
| The Bhagavad Gita, literally meaning The Song of the Bhagavan, often referred to as simply the Gita, is a 700-verse scripture that is part of the Hindu epic Mahabharata. It is a sacred text of the Hindus |
of Porus, Seloukas and Chandra Gupta
Maurya and Ancient Indian History as told by my paternal uncle kept me intrigued and fascinated, though mostly
confused, on making a sense of the
tragedy of defeat and the politics of Victory. I celebrated the might and
daring of a Hitler just because he fought the English.1971, the Bangladesh war and
the Naxalite Movement
and the names of Mujibur,Charu Majumdar,Kanu Sanyal,
Jangal Santhal,Kondapalli Sitarammayya, Naxalbari
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| Charu Majumdar was a communist revolutionary from India. Charu Majumdar's life is a story of "riches to rags". Born in a progressive landlord family in Siliguri in 1918, he later joined the militant Naxalite cause |
kept us excited like full
blooded participants. I was proud that I was Bengali as only we could understand
oppression and resist just like in the Freedom Movement (oh how naïve but how
real my childhood was).It was still too early to have understood and realised
the internecine conflict between the CPI (M) and CPI (-ML) and the
imperialistic role played by the Indian ruling party the Congress. The politics
was neither nuanced nor sophisticated, but counter-intuitive, perhaps. In this
politics of protest the Underdog was star. We the tragic victims, and the
English colonisers- always the villain. The latter could do nothing right and
was never right. In all of sports, fashion, literature and language the English
across the world was a leprous virus to be loathed. Always Dumas or a
Dostoevsky
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| Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky, sometimes transliterated Dostoevsky, was a Russian novelist, short story writer, essayist and philosopher |
and never a Dickens in literature. In football it was Lev Yashin or
a Puskas
 |
| Ferenc Puskás was a Hungarian footballer and manager, widely regarded as one of the greatest players of all time. He scored 84 goals in 85 international matches for Hungary, and 514 goals in 529 matches in the Hungarian and Spanish leagues. |
but not a Bobby Charlton., in war a Rommel, Zhukhov or Giap and not
Montgomery ever. for a visit always a
pilgrimage to the fearless defenders of justice and not to see.Later, if it was not the
English it was the American, a near enough clone. The Russians, Chinese and the
Vietnamese were the giants of resistance and friends of the weak. Foreign names
and climes became our very own. Che Guevera, Mao, Fidel Castro, Marx, Lenin,
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.
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| “Enveloped in temperatures of 130 degrees, men, women, children — entire families — were cloaked in a heavy blanket of dust, while mechanically stacking bricks on their head,” says Kristine in TED Talks. Here, the dust-stained feet of a brickmaker in India. |
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
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| Seema Azad activist-journalist |
stirred
many a heart with her poem of protest and quoting a few lines of a famous Palestinian
poet urging its people not to be allow the sweetness of tongue become the honeybees to lace your lips
shut into a wilful, silent surrender as against the hungry and hurtful mouth,
sounding the bugle alarm of our words ,voice and action to avenging wrongs.(hopefully
I got it right !?).
In
came Varavara Rao
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| Varavara Rao is a communist, activist, naxalite sympathizer, renowned poet, journalist, literary critic, and public speaker from Andhra Pradesh, India. He has been writing poetry for the last four decades. |
with his booming voice and severely Telegu-accented Hindi,
generous and optimistic with the news of the new fear of the Right at the
success of the tribal, self-governance models of Dandakaranya,Gadchiroli and
tracts of Chatisgarh,the proliferation
of “Modi Thug Groups” which intimidate into submission any and everyone who
dares to take the new deity’s name except with reverence, the high jacking of
Telengana state by anti-people forces though this achievement was largely a
testimony to the relentless and bloody struggle of revolutionaries ever since
the colonial days. He bemoaned the release of several life termers from jail
for brutal killings by a single judge who was a known RSS cardholder for long.While
he was happy to see the emergence of a certain sense of unity amongst the
various shades of the left in opposing the systematic and illegal acts of
terror against the common man, including the intelligentsia, he joked that at a certain such conference of
solidarity a senior member of an established parliamentary Communist Party had
acknowledged the success of the just struggles of the Revolutionary Democratic
Front and had urged him to leave the jungles to join the mainstream. To this he
had cynically quipped “since good days are coming soon it would be better if
they chose to come to the jungles instead”.
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!
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Birsa Munda was an Indian tribal freedom fighter and a folk hero, who belonged to the Munda tribe, and was behind the Millenarian movement that rose in the tribal belt of modern day Bihar, and Jharkhand
|
http://banjo55.blogspot.com/2014/04/prabhabati-bhavan-to-manner-born.html
Akashgagnga the IAF Skydiving Team on the 10th of August 2015 celebrated its 28th Birthday with more than traditional warmth,hospitality and camaraderie typical of military culture.The joie de vivre shared by one and all however leave many a bystander wondering whether typical of male and macho systems does the woman get ignored or just get a passing mention as is de rigueur. Shomu,my son leads a team with no recording devices for audio but photos alone.
