The Unbong Bong

I think I look like a Bengali even though I don’t have the trademark lush, long hair and am not exactly doe eyed. I definitely don’t sound like one. And no, I never wear a red bordered sari and don’t get into paroxysms every time I hear Robindro Shongeet. Sometimes people are surprised when they come to know I am from the cultural hotpot of the East.

I am a “Probashee Bangalee” which translated means a Bengali who has never lived in Bengal. As a Bengali born and brought up in Punjabified- Delhi, where people think India begins and ends with North India, I am often confronted with stereotypes. People assume all of us were born clutching a fish and have it morning, noon and night. The Bhadrolok’s love for fish is legendary but unfortunately I am not one of them. Neither am I a big fan of rice. My unconventional preferences made my Mum fret incessantly. She would often prophesize doom for me – what will happen to you if you get married into a conventional Kolkata family! Well, I did get married to a true blue bong who loves his fish as much as he does his Strauss but don’t startling contrasts make the best unions?

Although I love Kolkata, a city that has a soft corner for its three eph’s - Phish, phootball and phriends, where it’s diligent citizens express their displeasure by going on strikes - I do feel like “an Englishman in New York”, during my visits there. Most of its populace has an opinion on everything, argues with passion and is a closet revolutionary. The bhodrolok loves breaking into Keats at the drop of a hat and every adda is interspersed with a soulful rendition of Nazrul geeti or Robindro shongeet. And you are the only silent one in the room sitting with a silly, ignorant grin.

Not that it’s any better in Delhi. Tell a new acquaintance that you are a Bengali and you can bet your chhola bhaturaa that the first reaction you’ll get is Roshogulla. Yes, we invented this sugary dumpling but we invented many more legendary mishtees too. So why not a ledikeni, shondesh or chamcham? Didn’t William Cowper say” Variety is the spice of life”. And if I hear anyone say “ Aami tomake bhalobaashi” again, you can bet your sorry ass that am going to stuff your face with a treacherously bony Hilsa. Yes, just saying it feels good and dear readers please consider this a manual on what not to say when you meet a Bengali.

On Karvachauth, when most of your colleagues are decked up like Christmas trees and avoid the mere mention of water and grub, you standout like a sore thumb in your unadorned avatar and almost feel guilty glugging water from your bottle. I had to patiently clarify to my students that, yes I am married, no my husband is not planning to dump me and yes I do wish a long life for him. Once at the bus stop when one of my students wanted to know why am not wearing bangles, I told him with a straight face “In our culture the men fast for their wives”. He actually believed me. I feel like an alien when my friends excitedly exchange “kuttu ka atta” recipes during Navratra. But then, I feel out of place during the rest of the year as well- when they discuss Big Boss antics, Khatron Ke Khiladi, Mere Baap ki shaadi (is there such a soap? If not, producers please take note).

So what does that make me? A confused Bengali! A neither here neither there species! Or a Bengali proud of her roots even if she is a stranger to most of it. For me it’s a process of constant learning and unlearning. The other night as the husband read out one of Tagore’s poetry to me, we just couldn’t stop marveling at the timelessness of his works. My mother often gushes about Sunil Gangopadhay’s work and doesn’t think too highly of my choice of Indian authors who write in English. But does that make all Bengalis literary geniuses, just like we assume that southern states are home to mathematical wizards? Not really. So the next time if I hear someone say, you must be good singer no, most of you are …. that I owe my writing skills to my Bengali gene pool ,I will insist on reading out the entire Gitanjali to you in a quivering, emotion choked voice. Just like a typical Bengali!
Dedicated to Radhakanta, whose "fishy" enquiries prompted this post.