Intolerance

One of the rather horrible side-effects of the media explosion is that it has somehow made India far more intolerant by giving rise to a media-obsessed bunch of loonies. But I never expected this in Kolkata. A great article by Deeptanil Ray over at The Hoot. And the article that 'sparked outrage'. Sometimes I wonder if our lurch towards the 21st century hasn't made us more tribal.

And why is it wrong to criticise Islam?

Think about it, virtually all our lives, across the world have been determined by terror committed by Islamic terror. I know it is not fair to tar an entire religion because of the actions of some loonies, even though elements of the Indian media like nothing better to lump the entire right as the 'Sangh' and generally poke fun at them. Sure, they do things that deserve to poked fun at - Cow Urine - after the fiasco of the $10 laptop did we really need the gora's making fun of us again.
Anyway back to the pointm why is it wrong to criticise Islam? If one even dare question the religion in India they are dubbed 'anti secular' or 'communal'. What? Democracy allows me the right to question something? Sure outlaw imflammatory comments -flamebait in internet speak (sorry for the net analogies) - that is the more resposible blogs have 'comment moderation', but that said this utter intolerance will spark more Muthalik's and Togadia's people who support them. If your inner liberal shudders at that thought, you might be facilitating it because you're the intolerant one.
By arresting the Editor and the Publisher of The Statesman, the commies of India have again exposed themselves as Grade-A hipocrites. But what else did you expect in Commie-dom! While Chinese Commies sup on the opium of money, Bong Commies grow fat on Religion. Didn't all Commie philosophy question both of those things?

Yes, I should proof-read blog posts too

I proof my stories before I fire them off, and I should start taking equal care with my blog posts. But I will not edit the last post and will keep the comments as a reminder to myself of my tardiness. I apologise for that, but I've always written posts in a sort of 'stream of consciousness'. Yesterday I fired off the post in ten minutes and I didn't bother to read it even once.

Yes, I speak Bangla and I am Bengali, even my mother who reads this blog (thankfully only occasionally) decided to point that out to me, and the worst thing was that these were not mistakes of ignorance, they were mistakes of laziness. And laziness is worse than ignorance.

Again, I apologise for the rushed, grammatically horrible post. As a writer, one who writes for a living, these are bad mistakes to make. I know that this blog has a life of its own but I should start taking it a bit more seriously, which is why I've added all the comments about the last post.

I'm posting a couple of pictures along with the post, I should have added these yesterday but I didn't have a micro-USB cable with me in Calcutta. The pictures were clicked on a Nokia N78, so the quality isn't DSLR level, but they aren't half-bad either I believe. Until the story gets printed, I can't quite say where they were clicked - I had disabled the location tagging software on the device as well. Or so I think. OK, the only hint that I will give, and good Bongs might work out where I was, is that I ended my day in Tarakeshwar.

More about gossip and all later, including how horribly petty some senior journalists can be, a rampant drug-abuse problem among journalists particularly in one city, in which I also played a role recently, but which has existed for years. And more, as always send in your comments, even the really nasty ones (I won't publish those, but still I need to get worked up sometimes) and you can always email me, the address is on the right bar. To add this blog to your feed-reader, click this link. Take care guys and remember to buy your booze tonight if you live in India.

Hey

I'm writing this from Calcutta, the city I was born in and a city I'm visiting after two years. I haven't had much reason to come back here, but yesterday when I was driving through the heart of the Gangetic delta in southern Bengal, a place from where I can trace my roots from both sides of my family, I felt a weird sense of hollowness. I'm a fourth-generation city dweller from both my parents sides, and while driving through the lush freshly-planted paddy fields down the fantastic new Durgapur Expressway, the final-part of the North-to-East stretch of the Golden Quadrilateral, I saw things that should have been natural to someone from my families a century ago. You can't really picture a nicer pastoral scene than the stuff I saw yesterday. And then I saw Calcutta.
You know, I sometimes wonder why Bengali's who have moved out of the city have this massive fascination for the city, a weird sense of romanticism also, and I know that if I say something to the contrary I will be crucified by a whole host of senior editors and Delhi-baiters. Calcutta is an unique city, it is possibly India's only major city that is linked definately to one culture - Bangla. There is no other community in India which is so strangly linked to one city as Benaglis are - strange considering the city is a fairly young city in the scheme of things, particularly by Indian standards. I guess that might be because there has been so little inward migration into the city from elsewhere in the country, outward migration on the other hand has meant that Calcutta's (or Kolkata if you please) has lost its best and brightest for over half a century.
The reason I'm carrying on about this is because after my grandmother's death my father and I discussed the fate of the house in Calcutta, and while we haven't come to a final decision, it seems increasingly likely that the house where I spent three years of my life will possibly be sold off. I'm proud of being Bangla, not for the reasons some often say they are proud of being Bangla, and yes Bongs are irritating parochialists, my Bangla has improved manifold ever since I started journalism, it is still 'probashi' Bangla and understanding villagers was an issue yesterday (god, colloqualial rural Bong is insane), but I would say that my Bangla isn't half-bad. Its just that I do feel this strange attachment to this city, and selling the house would not be as traumatic as cutting the umbilical cord, and I can't quite make the perfect analogy over here, but you know it will be as if something will be missing.
Anyway, I am feeling awfully sentimental about Calcutta this time, but something tells me that I will be glad to get out of here tonight. I am coming back in a few days, making it twice in under a week, very strange considering I haven't been here two years.