In Calcutta, I was Bengali. Delhi preferred to call me 'Bong'. Pretty derogatory, I thought at first. The only thing I was reminded of when I heard that term, was that recurrent, resonating sound made by Kung-fu Panda's titanic, wobbling jelly-belly when he took on his adversaries. I hated it. Period. But man is a slave of habit, and before long I found myself mouthing that name with reference to me and my extended brethren with ease. Weird or what?!! It was much later, that I came across 'Bong' as a reference to a fascinating dope set-up, complete with half severed bottles, bubbling water, and lots of mind-boggling physics supporting it. I finally said to myself, 'Ha! It is cool after all!'. There ended my strife with the name. Adjusting with the rest wasn't so simple though.
My first nagging issue was my name. To fully comprehend my predicament, you need to understand the psyche of Bengali mothers in general. They love their sons/daughters to pieces. That's obvious. That often-stifling, all encompassing, singular love first manifests itself at the time of the baby's naming. They know their child is special. They're sure about it. So special that he, at no cost, can share someone else's desecrated name. If they do, it quite understandably, serves as a major source of maternal heartbreak. And boy that's bad! In the search of that elusive rare name for their oh-so-special child, they spend nights going through voluminous, dusty, weathered dictonaries. Weeks of no sleep, no food, and a countless unheard-of words later, they decide on the name. And it more than often turns out to be an archaic, redundant disaster!! not to mention more than half the planet can't ever pronounce it currently. The parents are thrilled by their achievement. They go about announcing the name of their new-born to their neighbours and distant relatives, oblivious to the disdain on their faces. Thus marks the beginning of an endless ordeal for the child. The child, who has to learn to wage war before he managed to master walking. "What's your name boy?"."I'm Oshontushto Gongopadhyay". "Osho what?!@#$". And the embarrassment has just begun.
My next existential dilemma . How Bong is really Bong? Am I being overtly Bong or have I fallen below the accepted levels of Bong-ness pre-decided by the self proclaimed torch bearers of my community? One section of my brothers and sisters can't speak any other language properly but Bangla. That's majorly because a large portion of them have studied in schools where the primary medium of instruction was Bengali. In their cases, its understandable, and if I may add, unfortunate. However, if you have had the good fortune of attending an English medium school throughout and still couldn't manage to speak the language properly, without that heavy Bongified accent, then all I have to say is, " Eeiu aar ay Disgress!!" ( which means 'you are a disgrace!!' in normal English ) A lot of you out there might feel that I'm being too hard on them. Yes I am, and I'll tell you why. According to me, English is one of the easiest languages to master, especially if you have attended an English medium school right from kindergarten. And in case you have given French or German a try, you'll know what I'm talking about. The reason why they still fumble and often shamelessly is that, they are primarily lazy and their heads are full of a pseudo superiority complex that Bengali is the best of them all. Bengali is beautiful. I totally agree. But to call it the best is slightly ridiculous. Every language has its own little nuances which make them different, and not better than the other. India alone has over 50 different languages listed in its constitution. So calling one of them 'the best' just displays one's ignorance. What mastering English needs is a little bit of effort, will and respect for the language. But no. They will continue to bask in the glory of the language they were born to speak in. They are happy living in their little Bengali coteries, refusing to learn what the world has to offer, laughing at all the 'Non-Bengalis' at how stupid and useless they are, unaware of the fact that the world mocks them even more for their blatant ignorance. I've seen it, and it saddens me.
"You don't talk like a Bong?!" I get that a lot. So I ask, "How do Bongs speak then? In Martian?" and here's what I get to hear. Bongs are essentially loud, and by loud, I mean it literally. In a hall full of people, if four Bongs get together at one corner, you can hear high-pitched echoing Bengali words float across the hall effortlessly, interspersed by thundering guffaws. Ya I know. You guys are Bong. Great! Thanks for making your presence felt!! If you happen to know them, and want to be involved in their conversation, well, its time for you to stop day dreaming. They are NOT going to switch their medium of conversation to include a lesser mortal like you. Never! Not in this life at least! So much for Bong social courtesies. And in case one of them is slightly more accommodating than the rest, he gets the dirts and is made to feel abnormal! I'll go for abnormal guy any day! Ya, you can sue me now!
This brings us to the second half of the Bengali population. The ultra modern, ubercool, anglicized lot who would prefer the British raj even after 60 odd years since independance . Ya. I'm talking about the kind, who have been born and raised in Calcutta since their diaper days but still can't speak a word of Bangla without that American twang to it. They are proud of not knowing their mother tongue. They are satisfied with reading Tagore translations. They think they were destined to live in America and curse the twist of fate that landed them in Calcutta of all places. They're probably even more American than the Americans themselves! One tight slap! They should be lined up in a row and shot through their screwed up heads! They serve no purpose and they deserve to die! I don't mind bringing Hitler back to life only to get rid of these weeds!
Which brings us to which category I belong to. I like to strike a balance. Lets say I'm the borderline species. And its tough being on the border, trust me. While my loud-mouthed, Bong-lish speaking, 'Bongs are the best' propagating, communist brethren think I'm much too pseudo to be called Bong, the rest accept me and thank their lucky stars cos I'm hardly a typical prototype hailing from the east who treats them like 'Non Bengalis', which apparently, again makes me a Pseudo bong. Well I'll tell you what I am. I'm Bengali and I'm normal. I have read more Bengali literature than a lot of 'true' Bengalis out there. I speak perfect Bangla. I love Rabindrasangeet and hear them more often than songs in other languages. I know the history of my birthplace in more detail than a lot of them who claim to know it better. I'm proud to hail from Bengal. But that is not my sole identity, and I refuse to make it my only one, leave alone wearing it on my sleeve. I'm accommodating, eager to learn and am open to perspectives.
I want to reach out to the world. If that makes me pseudo, then well, I don't really mind. At least that makes me normal. Thank God!
My first nagging issue was my name. To fully comprehend my predicament, you need to understand the psyche of Bengali mothers in general. They love their sons/daughters to pieces. That's obvious. That often-stifling, all encompassing, singular love first manifests itself at the time of the baby's naming. They know their child is special. They're sure about it. So special that he, at no cost, can share someone else's desecrated name. If they do, it quite understandably, serves as a major source of maternal heartbreak. And boy that's bad! In the search of that elusive rare name for their oh-so-special child, they spend nights going through voluminous, dusty, weathered dictonaries. Weeks of no sleep, no food, and a countless unheard-of words later, they decide on the name. And it more than often turns out to be an archaic, redundant disaster!! not to mention more than half the planet can't ever pronounce it currently. The parents are thrilled by their achievement. They go about announcing the name of their new-born to their neighbours and distant relatives, oblivious to the disdain on their faces. Thus marks the beginning of an endless ordeal for the child. The child, who has to learn to wage war before he managed to master walking. "What's your name boy?"."I'm Oshontushto Gongopadhyay". "Osho what?!@#$". And the embarrassment has just begun.
My next existential dilemma . How Bong is really Bong? Am I being overtly Bong or have I fallen below the accepted levels of Bong-ness pre-decided by the self proclaimed torch bearers of my community? One section of my brothers and sisters can't speak any other language properly but Bangla. That's majorly because a large portion of them have studied in schools where the primary medium of instruction was Bengali. In their cases, its understandable, and if I may add, unfortunate. However, if you have had the good fortune of attending an English medium school throughout and still couldn't manage to speak the language properly, without that heavy Bongified accent, then all I have to say is, " Eeiu aar ay Disgress!!" ( which means 'you are a disgrace!!' in normal English ) A lot of you out there might feel that I'm being too hard on them. Yes I am, and I'll tell you why. According to me, English is one of the easiest languages to master, especially if you have attended an English medium school right from kindergarten. And in case you have given French or German a try, you'll know what I'm talking about. The reason why they still fumble and often shamelessly is that, they are primarily lazy and their heads are full of a pseudo superiority complex that Bengali is the best of them all. Bengali is beautiful. I totally agree. But to call it the best is slightly ridiculous. Every language has its own little nuances which make them different, and not better than the other. India alone has over 50 different languages listed in its constitution. So calling one of them 'the best' just displays one's ignorance. What mastering English needs is a little bit of effort, will and respect for the language. But no. They will continue to bask in the glory of the language they were born to speak in. They are happy living in their little Bengali coteries, refusing to learn what the world has to offer, laughing at all the 'Non-Bengalis' at how stupid and useless they are, unaware of the fact that the world mocks them even more for their blatant ignorance. I've seen it, and it saddens me.
"You don't talk like a Bong?!" I get that a lot. So I ask, "How do Bongs speak then? In Martian?" and here's what I get to hear. Bongs are essentially loud, and by loud, I mean it literally. In a hall full of people, if four Bongs get together at one corner, you can hear high-pitched echoing Bengali words float across the hall effortlessly, interspersed by thundering guffaws. Ya I know. You guys are Bong. Great! Thanks for making your presence felt!! If you happen to know them, and want to be involved in their conversation, well, its time for you to stop day dreaming. They are NOT going to switch their medium of conversation to include a lesser mortal like you. Never! Not in this life at least! So much for Bong social courtesies. And in case one of them is slightly more accommodating than the rest, he gets the dirts and is made to feel abnormal! I'll go for abnormal guy any day! Ya, you can sue me now!
This brings us to the second half of the Bengali population. The ultra modern, ubercool, anglicized lot who would prefer the British raj even after 60 odd years since independance . Ya. I'm talking about the kind, who have been born and raised in Calcutta since their diaper days but still can't speak a word of Bangla without that American twang to it. They are proud of not knowing their mother tongue. They are satisfied with reading Tagore translations. They think they were destined to live in America and curse the twist of fate that landed them in Calcutta of all places. They're probably even more American than the Americans themselves! One tight slap! They should be lined up in a row and shot through their screwed up heads! They serve no purpose and they deserve to die! I don't mind bringing Hitler back to life only to get rid of these weeds!
Which brings us to which category I belong to. I like to strike a balance. Lets say I'm the borderline species. And its tough being on the border, trust me. While my loud-mouthed, Bong-lish speaking, 'Bongs are the best' propagating, communist brethren think I'm much too pseudo to be called Bong, the rest accept me and thank their lucky stars cos I'm hardly a typical prototype hailing from the east who treats them like 'Non Bengalis', which apparently, again makes me a Pseudo bong. Well I'll tell you what I am. I'm Bengali and I'm normal. I have read more Bengali literature than a lot of 'true' Bengalis out there. I speak perfect Bangla. I love Rabindrasangeet and hear them more often than songs in other languages. I know the history of my birthplace in more detail than a lot of them who claim to know it better. I'm proud to hail from Bengal. But that is not my sole identity, and I refuse to make it my only one, leave alone wearing it on my sleeve. I'm accommodating, eager to learn and am open to perspectives.
I want to reach out to the world. If that makes me pseudo, then well, I don't really mind. At least that makes me normal. Thank God!
i love the naming bit especially oshontushtho...lol
ReplyDeleteI recently went through a similar naming duel for my nephew.. he's finally been given a modern name.. thank god.. :)
ReplyDelete