“E ma, tui machh khash na!” (“Oh My God, you don’t eat fish!”).
If I got a Rupee every time someone said this to me, I’d be quite rich by now.
Yes, I’m a Bengali. And no, I don’t eat fish. I don’t like Rosogollas and
Phuchkas either. I think a few Bengali foodies just fainted…
I heard someone say a couple of weeks ago that the dislike
of fish is a fashion among Bengalis of the younger generation. Hello! Fashion?
What fashion? Isn’t it my wish what I do and do not put in my mouth and attempt
to digest? I don’t see you wearing a low rise jeans or a plunging neckline
despite not being comfortable in it. The sweet stink that accompanies a fish
has been major turn-off for me since childhood. The mere thought of putting
something which smells that stinky, despite however it might smell after
cooking, in my mouth is repulsive. But hey! I don’t go around stopping other
people from stuffing themselves with platefuls of fish.
So why do I have to
keep explaining my gastronomical preferences to one and all. I’ve seen how you
all look at other forms of meat. Not ‘chikayn’. Never ‘chikayn’. After the holy
fish-gods, ‘chikayn’ is the only meat looked at as being of pure noble spirit.
Nothing bad ever comes about from having excess ‘chikayn’. So KFC flourishes
all over Calcutta. Ok, so the bird is safe. What about the goat? Well, there my
fellow Bongo-bashis are split down the middle. Some adore it; others avoid it
like the plague. Depending on which side of the fence you sit, it qualifies
either as the juiciest meat you’ll ever taste or the rubberiest. And then come
the other two types of meat, the ones-that-must-not-be-named; or eaten. The
mere mention of those types of meat to most Bengalis is sure to get you struck
off their invite list. One is dirty, the other is holy. I wonder who made those
classifications. Not as if someone’s asking you to eat them raw. But again, I don’t
impose. But still, they do.
The problem, they say, is that you’re not quite
Bengali unless you are able to de-bone the boniest, most foul smelling, pieces
of meat with your bare hands and gulp them down, with curry covering your hands
till your wrists.
Then there’s Phuchka. You should listen to my fellow
Bengalis boasting about how many they ate! “Once I ate 50”, says the local aged
uncle. “That’s nothing”, quips his younger fellow commuter on the bus. “I once
ate 70, with extra spice”. There’s surely a Guinness world record waiting
somewhere. It is said to brighten the gloomiest of moods, encourage the
juiciest of conversations and make you feel excellent in general. Must be alcohol they mix in the water, because
that’s the only thing I know which has those effects. And so the model Bengali
spends their lazy evenings at his local Phuchka-wala, named appropriately as
Gangu, gorging on a few dozen Phuchkas, without worrying about why the same
water is used in their dish as well as to wash Gangu’s hands.
When I was younger, no name struck more fear in me than the
one and the only – Rabindranath Tagore.
I’ve got to be careful not to get
thrown out of this city with what I say next. Agreed, he won India’s first
Nobel Prize. Agreed, he wrote a lot and a lot of good stuff too. But please,
have you ever wondered who his target audience was? Was it really the 13 year
old student being force fed Mr. Tagore’s works in the name of syllabus? Was
that blasphemy I just committed? Well, I guess I’ll find out after I post this.
Wouldn’t it be better if his works were taught without the pressure of having
to sit for exams on them at the end of the term? Anyway, those are questions
for another time and place. The fact that I prefer English authors to Mr.
Tagore is also a problem. Is writing his name as Mr. Tagore also a problem? Not
Bengali enough maybe, I don’t know. I like reading English because I had good
English teachers who were able to generate my interest in the subject. It’s
nothing against Bengali. Just my preference. But that’s strike 2 isn’t it?
Then there’s the country’s favourite pastime – Cricket. Or
maybe it’s favourite religion? Either way. For a Bengali, before 1996, Cricket
meant Sachin Tendulkar. To be fair, Cricket meant Sachin Tendulkar for the
whole country back then. From 1996, Cricket meant Sachin and Mr. Bongoshontan
himself, Sourav Ganguly.
They cheered when he hit his famous cover-drive,
groaned when he got out, defended him with their lives when he got Tendulkar
run-out against New Zealand in the Champion’s Trophy final in Nairobi. Some
even dared to call him greater than Sachin himself. Heresy, I say! And then
there’s the fact that India has never produced a worse criminal than a certain
Rahul Dravid. How they blasted him on our mighty one’s ouster. Ouch! You’d
think it was murder! He came back a couple of years later, and retired a couple
more years later on his own terms. They said he had been forced. They said he
was the greatest. Hold on, what about the other Greatest? Surely, he wasn’t greater
than God! And then KKR dumped him after three unsuccessful seasons. We became
Pune-ites (for want of a better word) overnight. The discussions were
mind-numbing! “It’s only a game”, I thought. They were ready to execute. The next
year Pune dumped themselves out. IPL was the forbidden fruit. They missed the
chance of celebrating two IPL Championship wins. They took it on the chin with
stoic faces and muted applause. My fellows have exiled themselves from ‘India
ka Tyouhar’ (that’s difficult to spell in English!).
The year is 2025, Yuzvendra Chahal, the captain of India
walks out to the toss. Heard in Behala that afternoon, “Sourav kokhonoi batting
nitona ei pitch e. Plus, eta toh day night match. Raate eto dew. Ei shob player
ki kore je captain hoe ke jane. Gelo ajke.” (Sourav would never have batted
first on this pitch. It’s a day-night game. Plus, the dew factor will come into
play. I’m amazed at how such players become captain. We have no chance today”.
I rest my case.
Okay, the traditional Bengalis are not all that bad. And no, I don't call myself or my fellow Begalis as Bongs. This
post is meant to be a satirical comment from one who is a so-called non-traditional
writing about his observations about the traditionals. They sure make for
interesting conversation. They love their food, their literature, their history,
their culture and their cricket. Also their football. Don’t get me started on
the Brazil versus Argentina argument. It could go on all night! They’re some of
the most passionate people you’ll ever come across. My girlfriend’s a
traditional Bengali and I’ve got no complaints so far. In fact, all this makes
for excellent conversation topics. And a reminder, just because I don’t share
their preferences, doesn't make me any less proud of all this. It isn't fashionable
to be different. Just that I am different.
