Anniversary in Samland : Part 3

Impressions

Domestic chores and home assignments ("domus" is Latin for "home" mind you...not implying anything, just noting) will give the other a run for its money as the biggest time-consumer in the life of the grad student. There are times when doing the dishes seems the most supremely important activity in life. Not much progress has happened in research over the week, several hours of prime time have been wasted trying to change buses and getting to the grocer's, the weekend cooking megaproject also has resulted in something barely edible, food has been hungrily partaken all the same : now comes the most exciting part. Scrubbing each stain assiduously is a strangely meditative exercise; all your faculties are brought to focus on that stain, mind and body need to cohere in the single-minded pursuit of this almost ritualistic act of cleansing (probably reviving some of the instinctive Brahmanical faith of my forefathers in me) ; all that cooking and eating was mere preface and preparation for this real act; I exist to do the dishes and by doing them I exist. No wonder the Thikey Mashis have always seemed so druggy happy and smug, when I was home in Calcutta (sigh that word "home" slipped so easily out through my fingers). Trash removal is merely the afterglow, the post-coital cigarette.

My relations to communities of humans I am supposed to associate or identify with have always been ambiguous. Bengali-speaking communities usually manage to sprout in all university towns of the English-speaking world. The subversive or transgressive postcolonial politics of this aside, the emotional subaltern in me is easily ensnared by the gooey tentacles of the Bongiyo Samitis; the disarming charm of the ethnic boudis and the subaltern khisti-laced lingo of the quixotic dadas always work wonders on me. I have my strong doubts whether a shared language by itself can be the basis for relating with people, but somehow it's a bit more than that. The Bong bhadroloke upbringing is so insular and idiosyncratic that it perhaps is a whole system we go through that we are talking about here. The layered identity of the bhadroloke is much more than the common language. I will always strive to pull down the barriers imposed by this obscenely full-of-itself repressive system, to expose and ridicule it, to shock and awe its sensibilities, but the emotional core will remain, thus forever binding me to contradictory impulses, like so many other things in life. So bring on the NRI Durga Puja, with the dadas recently discovering a nostalgia ridden zest they never knew they had back in the desh, and the weightwatching boudis queuing up for the khichudi bhog in their annual weekend ethnic wear flaunting day. Let the Bongos summon their rongos from across the seven seas. I shall never find within me the community feeling to say the chandipath or do the dhunuchi dance, or for that matter to perform an abritti on the stage. I can stand by and discharge my obligations to the community by serving the khichudi to the boudi or drawing a chair for the dada, never fully becoming, belonging or attracting much attention anyway. I was pretty much the same in Calcutta as well, in Kanpur too; always finding it difficult to blend my voice with the crowd's, to conform. In a silent brooding way I was always arrogant and guilt-ridden. Does that make me Humphrey Bogart? Apparently not.

The Middle-east and Latin America strangely draw me. I think they have the most beautiful women in the world. That's why their men are so bent on being uber-macho and violent. Contraposed with my ambiguous approach to my own identity, is this irrational fetishism, this exoticization of things. I want to be international in my outlook. Being a homogenized Yank is oh-so-boring. Europe is far away. So I try to learn Spanish. I tell my friends I want to pick up Latinas but the real reason is my obsession with internationalism. The more cultures I imbibe, the more educated and chic I am to myself. I have some Persian friends, a mixture of conservative and liberal. I respect the girl in western attire for her internationalism and also the hijab-observing colleague for her upholding her identity in a potentially hostile land. The country fascinates me. They manage to have underground music, fashion shows, good cinema and much better gender ratios in college than India despite the religio-fascist regime in power. They seem like a people used to tight rope walking, of having understood the value of the real good things in life through deprivation. I have no pearls of wisdom to offer about Indian and Chinese people - they are too many to interest me. My only interaction with black people has been with Afro-Caribbeans on the soccer field. Where do I get to meet Jewish intellectuals?

The American way of life continues to elude me. I am too doubt-ridden to even attempt that lifestyle. Weekend parties, drunken binges, making out : do Americans never grow up? Surrounded by this endless farcical parade of teenage silliness, of painted-faces beer-swilling
Saturday football crowds, of poorly educated students failing to articulate themselves in their native tongue, of "still single " websites and free laptop offers popping up : sometimes I am inclined to be extremely condescending towards the natives and their energy-wasting ignorant capitalistic ways. But then this country has given me the wall, and I am not here to puke on it.

Haven't tried out much of the campus culture yet. They do have plays and concerts occasionally (which I have been meaning to attend for quite some time). They screen a movie every Friday (which I never will go to) and occasionally they do show cinema as well. What did I hear someone say? Movie and cinema are synonymous? Not on your life! Movie is pedestrian and Hollywood - cinema is artsy and French.