West Bengal swims across blood

[This essay, bearing the title "Buddha - in the Museum of Murderers", was published as an NDTV blog. Time tells me to flash it once more, though as a prolusion to another essay, which will be here in a few days.]

“Let us understand that there is a kind of poison in the atmosphere.  How are we to fight it?  Whether the number of those who shout these slogans is 50 to 500, we may not ignore them. We must try to discover their grievance.  We may not treat them with contempt, if we are believers in ahimsa…” – (MK Gandhi, ADDRESS AT BENGAL WORKERS’ CONFERENCE, MALIKANDA, February 24, 1940, vol - 78) 

Haradhan Baag, a farmer of Singur, had killed himself before.  Prasanta Das, a farmer of Khasher Bheri, slung himself with due respect for death.  The farmers, who were agitated, furious – who demonstrated no end of protest to save themselves and save their lands of heart’s desire… saved themselves from the cruel clasp of life in due course.  Life bears no worth to them.  It carries no conviction.

Every farmer dies.  Buddha laughs.  Every farmer dies.  Buddha claps.  Every farmer dies.  Buddha consolidates his win.  Yes, finally he is at the winning post… splitting his sides at the fiesta of suicides.  It is painful, unendurable.  Side by side, it is an excellent clip from an excellent art film.  And hopefully it is, since Buddhadeb Bhattacharya had composed the script of crime… a long, long back.  You are really butch and brut!

WB Chief Minister has, no doubt, a fetish about FDI.  He plays the role of a filibuster, not metaphorically, but in real.  He is, above all, a magpie who hoards blood.  He is a greengrocer with a dream of selling greenhouse gases.

The all party meeting was really histrionic.  It turned a public hitch and yet again titillated the public passion.  Unfortunately, the ruling party thought it would be as trouble-free as a Hobson’s choice.  The game will be kept on going in full swing with no bona fide interest kept for the crossing of voters… the poor and unhappy civilians.  The undue advantage is to the strong.  Why is it called ‘all party meet’ the when Bhumi Uchched Pratirodh Committee and PDSI and others were uninvited (better say, ‘ruled out’)? 

Citizens think alike.  Ministers think alike.  The state is ruined by both.  Obesity of riches and fortune is a treacherous thing.  It does harm to every body.  The merchants of Venice, sorry Indonesia, are coming with all sorts of trouble.  DOW woos you with a bouquet of misfortune and you are wooed.  You chiefly emerge to be one of the heartless human beings who hold on both to charade in terms of civic sympathy and to inescapable desire for riches.  Especially citizens of urban Kolkata have a chignon of sympathy for you.  You are of little significance now.  I request my urbanized Kolkatabasi through this little passport to scrap their heads and think over the bumptious old man.  To be unfortunate is no bad at all.  The crisis is elsewhere – we have lost the bliss of optimism.  We have to appreciate a society full of aroma of blissful coexistence.  Keeping the dignity of human blood can help demolish the petticoat thought of going for a burton.  Please lay by, Messrs of Kolkata, a four-year distress to wipe out the burglars of our West Bengal in the Bidhansava (Legislative Assembly) Election.         

Today it’s been surmised that YOU, the unfriendly commander of WB, are trying to rip apart our existence, our right to existence.  Hundreds of thousands of thanks to you your licentious aggression towards the farmers’ blood.  Your seat is the ugliest danger-prone zone.  It takes millions of beasts to make a Chief like you!

We are no more citizens of KOLKATA!  We are the citizens of SALT LAKE CITY CENTER!  Singur and City Center – we need both?  They are mismatched!  There is no trait of Indian-ness with the latter.  Tinkle your parsimony of thinking.  The latter celebrates the volatile identity of Western culture, turning away from Indian culture and way of life.  Ratan Tata heads the Investment Commission, set up by the Government of India in a bid to exert a pull on foreign investments into India on a larger scale.  It is a suffocating truth that you are a dirty parasite to him, can’t violate your master’s order.  You have too forgotten that the master should not be obeyed all the time.

Say no to ‘greasing everything’!  It is detrimental to today’s run of life.  Sourav Ganguly and Haradhan Baag are mismatched!  Dishing out an acre of green grass to Sourav is a damned contrary to the rip-off of the fertile lands of Haradhan.    

How long would we go for entertaining words?  How long would we say, we are well?  We would soon forget to ask a man, “How do you do?” – As we would soon forget to look forward.  And… would continue walking having our heads sunk.  No, not out of fear!  No, not out of envy!  But, out of being abused.  We dodge ourselves.  We dodge our sight… our esteem.  We put on ruse of nobility.  A few days ago, having taken part in a rally of protest against the brutal carnage of Nandigram, I got into a bus at Hedua (an ancient locality at Kolkata).  A passenger fixed his glance like fixed deposit on to the grey colour badge on my shirt and asked me, “Does it make any worth?”  Mountain of vehement words cropped into my brains, but I restricted myself.  First, I smiled away the situation; next I went on thinking that you had been the best amplifier after the Dhantala event; finally I said to him, “The difference between you and me – you are still laid-back, and I can’t help putting myself in a protest rally”.  He floated his eyes away.  He connived at ‘the’ reality.

The man, too, has been politically murdered.  The man, too, has been psychologically uprooted.  This is today’s Indian.  This is today’s West Bengali.  Impolitely nonchalant (I won’t mind if I hurt you, Mr Passenger)!  To him, it matters little if his co-Indians are duped by the govt.  He has forgotten the air of protest.  He has forgotten that some one has to protest, some other one has to fight, and some another one has to inject the warmth of human blood and the taste of civil rights into the rest.  We have forgotten how to pay honour to human skin.  Anguish and agony is like a newspaper service, visits daily and goes down to oblivion… daily.

The man has not gone this through and thoroughly.  He has been ramshackle.  To him, it matters zilch if someone throws the concept of motherland into oblivion.  And the very ‘someone’ is ‘you’ – the CM.  To wake up somebody is a process of serious teaching.  And you are cunningly killing this process dead.  

Would you like to see everyone being politically polluted, socially savaged and economically enchanted?  Would you like to see all and sundry to be the worse for wear?         

We feel we are under the weather.  Our motherland is sabotaged.  The bloodshed never sheds your tears – that’s an air of audacity, pitilessly perverted, intensely idiosyncratic, stricken with moral dipsomania.

You should stand in front of a mirror and see the unashamed bare bones on the flat skin of it.   

You seem to be a bugbear to the Indian youths – too sadistic you are.  Scrap off “The Refugee” from the syllabus of Class X, Jatindranath’s “Nabanna” from that of Class XI.  Abortion of thought runs within the school and… without.  We are refugees, sorry, we are like near-refugees or made-refugees.  At least a teacher has to congregate minimum nerve to read the pieces aloud for he is jeopardized without being in it.

Does it make any worth?

Yes, it does.  It will help them listen to the bifurcated tongue of the CM.  If a person frightens the common with the sinful intention of seizing the attention of the common, a dangerous anathema with untold misery is about to lead to.  Power politics does not stand tall.  Your pie-eyed cadres are but perverted paedophiles.  You must not ignore the challenges ahead of you – the challenges of Truth.  The artillery of challenges should be paid attention to.

Suffice it to say, a day is coming when every old soul would spin out a fairy tale to his/her grandchild… “Once upon a time, there was a technophobic mother, called Singur/Nandigram, who detested having to nurture sperms of TATA/SALIM/WB GOVT in her fertile Fallopian tube…”

India’s share in world export is 1%.  It matters s-s-s-o-o-o little.  BUT it matters if nobody cares the motherland and her inhabitants to give a slight winch or a colossal boost to the world export.  But there is no device left to spread the smell of autarky.

Life is still deposited to Life.  Rice is still superior to Chevrolet.  Can’t you think it, eh?

If you want to absolve from the sin, Rabindranath is still there, whom you may resort to… and above all, give the kiss of life to the impoverished.  I think the citizens scattered all over West Bengal and outside had never Rabindranath imprinted on their hearts or propitiated.  Had they had serious consideration… they would have no grimy dream of making a Bangalore in Kolkata.  This patch of soil belongs to Rabindranath.  This patch of soil belongs to Jasimuddin.  This patch of soil belongs to the half-fed half-naked those.  And they are sensitive… full of fellow feeling… awash with moonbeams.  And he is not a man, who hurts man every day, who hurts man every second, every hertz, and every minute minute who helps an individual get to a social and political death… helps his glasnost go down under the weight of horror death.

If you were a believer in ahimsa, you would realize it.  Had you been a blood brother of your territory, you would have realized it.

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