I go to Calcutta prepared for the worst. I have visions of some sort of Industrial revolution scene from hell, full of smoke-grimed mills and impoverished inhabitants on bended knee supplicating before the figure of Mother Theresa as she shuffles past. The reality’s a city that’s brightly modern and in some ways cosmopolitan, with hellish areas inbetween. It’s also uncomfortably busy, the traffic log-jammed in an ongoing rush of cars, rickshaws, carts and people while trams crawl in amongst it all with a sparking scent of ozone. I like it. It’s a city full of energy, the people have attitude, and there’s a buzz to be had from the whole chaotic mess of it all.

Westerners are a plentiful commodity here. I stay in street where every second room seems to be occupied by backpackers or people doing voluntary work. The cafes and restaurants are full of us all, the voluntary workers identifiable by the way by the way they cluster together in little cliques discussing the shared horrors and satisfactions of their experiences. I speak with a Dutch teacher here to plunder the villages of Orissa for jewellery. “The trick is to go to the pawn merchants. The villagers sell their jewellery to them and all the merchants do is smelt it down. You get antique pendants and all sorts of that things that way. They don’t realise the value.” Which may be true, but it seems immoral to deprive people who have so little in this way.

The heart of the city is the Maidan, a large green area of parkland which is the host to the Victoria Monument, a building that still radiates an aura of imperialism. It’s not that it isn’t impressive – it is, but like the monarch it’s named after it’s sternly aloof., and isn’t the sort of building you can fall in love with. Early morning sees joggers pounding along the paths, and later in the day groups of people are out playing khadi, or taking pony rides, while elsewhere shepherds tend to goats and sheep that graze in the shade of the trees. Evidence of the city’s cosmopolitan aspirations comes with the sight of couples strolling hand in hand, kissing and hugging, a sight that’s commonplace in the west but virtually unknown in India.

In complete contrast are the howrah slums, made notorious by The City of Joy, a mawkish book turned into a film in which Patrick Swazy starred as an American doctor who Finds Himself while working in Calcutta. It’s a telling point that the slums had to be especially constructed for the film as the real ones weren’t considered to be suitably horrific. The worst are the shanties that are constructed beneath Howrah bridge, in a state of decrepitude in the monsoon rains, and their inhabitants wading knee deep in mud and shit. These genuinely are the worst I see in India. Those that live in buildings are well-off by comparison, which is not to say that I’d volunteer to live there.

Elsewhere are streets lined by prostitutes, garishly made up, calling out as I pass. As they’re shouting in Bengali, a language I don’t speak, who knows what they’re saying. Possibly “Hey big boy!”. Or more likely, “Hi there, tall lanky foreigner with an inadequate penis. We don’t actually want your trade, we’re just calling you names.” Whatever it is, it gives the opportunity for much hilarity on their part.

It rains a great deal. In the space of twenty minutes the streets are transformed from dry and dusty to thigh-high floods. Everyone hoists up trousers or saris to wade through the water while rats escape by climbing up the walls of buildings in a remarkably agile fashion. The very act of stepping forwards proves to be test of the imagination – what exactly is that soft and squelchy thing that you’re stepping on? Looking down offers no clues, the water stirred to a brown murk by the passage of traffic. There’s not much that can be done in these circumstances apart from retiring to my hotel room and watching the interminable flood of water running through the streets. In the hall, the hotel workers are transfixed by the television located there with its endless stream of Bollywood movies. It’s a fixation that many people share throughout the country, unhealthily so. They watch the screen with a rabbit-in-the-headlights helplessness, not as an ambient distraction.

In Calcutta I meet Kevin and Jackie. I’d seen them, far off, on first arriving in Madras. Somewhat uniquely for backpackers they’re rather on the largish side which tends to make them stand out in the crowd from a distance. They’re travelling the world, this being Jackie’s second trip to India. This may explain her good humour in the face of things that make me boil with rage. We go sightseeing together. There’s a planetarium, impressive in its scale, performances in English, which is somewhat let down by a pointer along the ceiling that’s moved by a clearly visible shadowed hand. We take a tram ride, which jolts and screeches through the street and threatens to judder apart into a rusting pile of metal plates. The other passengers gawp. Jackie takes photos of them gawping and they seem rather pleased by this. There’s a museum exhibiting Tagore’s belongings. His slippers are in a glass case. It displays the pen that he used, along with blank sheets of paper. It’s like a deification. At the day’s end, I’m stricken down with gardia, the sting in the tail to the day’s events. The toilets pipe’s broken and shit goes swimming onto the floor in a rush of water then it goes swimming out of a crack in the wall to flood the communal showers alongside my room. That’s India all over for you: no pleasure without some dirt and discomfort lurking in there somewhere.

Saat sabah 8 gibi. Kis. Disarisi gunesli ama soguk. Ben annemin yanindayim. Uyuyor olsamda, nefesini hissedebiliyorum. Sanirim uyku ile uyaniklik arasinda gidip geliyorum. Birden kapinin sesini duyuyorum. Abim isten gelmistir diye dusunurken, yatakodasinin kapisindan bir yüz beliriyor. Kapi iyice aciliyor ve abim iceri giriyor. Tam algilayamiyorum sanirim. Hala uyuyor olmaliyim. Abimin gercekten odaya girdigini, yanima gelip beni hafifce yanagimi oksayarak uyandirdiginda anliyorum. Yorgani aciyor ve usulca beni annemin yanindan aliyor. Annemin ruhu bile duymuyor. Odadan sessizce cikardiktan sonra beni, ona yardim etmem gerektigini, bu yuzden hemen ustumu giyip cikmamiz gerektigini soyluyor bana. Bende onun dedigini yapiyorum, ve yola koyuluyoruz…

Abimin araba kullanisina her zaman bayilmisimdir. Yine aciyoruz muzigimizi. O zamanlar deli oldugum Dr Bombay’in Calcutta sarkisi. Son ses ve tam gaz gidiyoruz. Varmamiz gereken yere gelmis olacagiz ki, parkta duruyor ve (simdiki zamanda nefret ettigim fakat o zaman ki en sevdigim) akmerkeze giriyoruz. Sabahin koru oldugundan, herzaman oldugu gibi kalabalik degil. Yavas yavas ilerliyoruz. Elektronik esyalari geciyor, temizlik reyonunu es geciyoruz. Ayakkabi reyonundan koseye donunce karsimiza inanilmaz bir yer cikiyor. Rengarenk bir bolum. Acaba abim, dusundugum seyi mi yapacak? Yavas yavas ilerliyoruz ve pembemsi bir yerde duruyoruz. Tam onumde Baby Born‘um icin haftalardir istedigim karyola duruyor. Abime bakiyorum. Abim bana bakiyor. Ikimizde gulumsuyoruz. Elini uzatiyor ve o karyolayi reyondan aliyor. Benim kalbim feth edilmis durumda tabi…

Eve dondugumuzde annemin hala uyumasini firsat bilip, hemen karyolayi birlestirmeye koyuluyoruz. Daha dogrusu abim yapiyor bunu, ben sabirsizlikla bitmesini bekliyorum. Odanin kapisini kapatiyoruz, anneme ses gitmesin diye. tum gece boyunca calismis olan abim, uykusunu bi kenara atiyor (ki kendisi uyku duskunu biriydi ozamanlar) ve sacmasapan bir karyolayi yapiyor. Benim icin. Karyola tam bitmek uzereyken, annem odanin kapisini aciyor ve uykulu uykulu “ne oluyor burda” der gibi bi bakis atiyor. Abimde bende susuyoruz, ama annem cakiyor tabi ki durumu. Ironik bir “Aferim oglum” diyip cikiyor odadan. Abim bana goz kirpip karyolanin son parcasini taktiktan sonra, “hadi bakalim ortusunude sen ser” diyor, ve karyolayi bana birakiyor…

Hayal kurmak, herzaman ileriye bakmak demek degil. Bazen anilarida hatirlamak gerekir. Acisiyla tatlisiyla anilar ölümsüzdür. Onlari yasatmak gerekir. Ki bazen ucuk hayallerden bile daha guzellerdir…

Fu un terrorista pachistano ad effettuare, dalla cella di massima sicurezza del carcere pachistano di Hyderabad nel quale era rinchiuso, la telefonata al presidente pachistano Zardari, spacciandosi per il ministro degli esteri indiano Mukherjee, all’indomani degli attacchi di Mumbai, facendo temere per qualche ora lo scoppio della quarta guerra fra i due paesi (se si esclude quella non dichiarata del 1998). Lo riferisce oggi il quotidiano pachistano Dawn. Omar Saeed Sheikh, ritenuto uno dei piu’ importanti terroristi pachistani, in carcere tra l’altro per il rapimento e l’omicidio del giornalista del Wall Street Journal Daniel Pearl, secondo il giornale pachistano, in carcere, nonostante si trovasse in isolamento, riusciva a ricevere telefonate dalla moglie su un cellulare che aveva nascosto. La scheda Sim era una scheda inglese, cosa che avvalora quanto ha scritto nella sua biografia l’ex presidente Pervez Musharraf, secondo il quale Saeed era un servizio del MI6, il servizio segreto inglese. Sul quel telefono cellulare, il terrorista fu informato dalla moglie dei fatti di Mumbai, ricevendo continui aggiornamenti. Venerdi’ 28 novembre, a due giorni dall’inizio degli attacchi terroristici a Mumbai, nelle stesse ore in cui i gruppi speciali indiani liberavano gli ultimi ostaggi negli alberghi della citta’, nella residenza ufficiale del presidente pachistano Asif Ali Zardari squillo’ il telefono riservato: dall’altra parte Saeed, spacciandosi per il ministro degli esteri indiano, Pranab Mukherjee, accusava il Pakistan di aver aiutato i terroristi, annunciando di star spostando le truppe verso il confine pachistano e ingiungendo a Islamabad di prendere provvedimenti contro i fondamentalisti islamici. Zardari richiamo’ a Islamabad il primo ministro Yusuf Raza Gilani che era a Lahore, un aereo militare parti’ alla volta di New Delhi per riportare a casa il ministro degli esteri Shah Mahmud Qureshi che sarebbe dovuto ritornare il giorno dopo con un volo di linea. Il capo di stato maggiore dell’esercito viene avvisato di mettere in stato di massima allerta le truppe, e di cominciare a spostare battaglioni dal confine afghano a quello indiano. Furono 24 ore di intense telefonate, di contatti diplomatici tra Islamabad, New Delhi e Washington. Lo stesso pseudo ministro degli esteri indiano autore del falso telefonico con Zardari avrebbe provato a chiamare anche il segretario di stato americano Condoleezza Rice, ma i servizi americani non hanno passato la telefonata. La Rice invece parlo’ con Zardari e poi con Mukherjee, che smenti’. Saed e’ stato trasferito nel carcere di Lahore e il responsabile del carcere di Hyderabad, dopo che una perquisizione approfondita ha fatto rinvenire telefoni cellulari e schede nella cella di Saed, e’ stato trasferito.

Indian Glamor Pictures The pictures are rocking.

Formed in December 2008  The Cynical Recess is an up & Coming progressive rock band from Kolkata ,the City of Joy. With trademark high octane vocals  they created  a buzz  (and raised few eyebrows as well) as the the  only band to get selected from Kolkata for the prestigious GIR XIII . We caught up with this rising band for a short interview.

IRMP3 : Hey Guys thanks for the interview, tell us about the ‘origin’ of Cynical recess, How did you all meet? and how you guys came up withe the band name “Cynical Recess’?
CR: Cynical Recess was formed in December ’08. We were just a bunch of friends deciding to jam up and relive the 80’s era of progressive glam rock but we always lacked a vocalist. Then Abhishek Gurung joined the ranks which eventually resulted into the formation of the band. After bagging top honors at almost every rock competitions held in and out the state, the band left a buzz around the national circuit. Some of our memorable victories would be, Kings of Rock ’08, Milieu ’09, Headstrong ’09 (Bangalore), Vh1 Jam IT ’09, Times of Youth Rock Festival ’09.We also played at Café Morrison,RSJ Pub Rock Festival and Independence Rock and headlined a lot of school and college festivals.

Cynical Recess according to our theory is a “doubtful break”. Basically we are all decked up with studies, college and work. We hardly used to find time to get together so out jam ups were always in short supply(not anymore) ,hahaha..thats why we came up with the name Cynical Recess.

IRMP3 : What is the current line up? Could you Please introduce yourselves
CR:

Abhishek Gurung (Vocals)

Abhishek Chatterjee (Guitar/Vocals)

Abhinandan Mukherjee (Drums/Words)

Gaurav DasGupta (Guitar)

Rahul Maity (Bass)

Suraj Sinha (Keyboard)

IRMP3: Describe the genre Cynical Recess plays? What are your influences musically or otherwise?
CR: Our music aptly sounds next to Progressive Glam Rock with an Alternative touch. Influences :  Ronnie James Dio, White Snake, Angel Dust, Van Halen, MR.BIG,Paradise Lost, Deep Purple, Skidrow, Led Zeppelin, Alter bridge, Hammerfall,Porcupine Tree, Dream Theater, Queensryche, Iron Maiden, FireHouse, Europe, Scorpions.

IRMP3: Could you explain briefly about your music making process? and How often you guys rehearse?
CR: We rehearse about 2 – 3 times a week now. We compose our music with a lot of prowess, keeping in mind how it will relate to the audience. Each of our tunes has a separate code of message attached to it. First Abhinandan writes the lyrics, Suraj frames the structure and then we all jot the inputs down and make each of our sections as matured as possible.

IRMP3: What is Cynical Recess is like when unplugged?
CR: Apart from Suraj, we are all college going students. Even when we are not making music, we do make it a point of hanging out together, goofing around and chilling out at Suraj’s place almost every weekend and having a lot of fun. Suraj, being an IT analyst by profession takes care of our ration at every outing. That’s about it.

IRMP3 : Now that GIR is a huge feat in your resume, what are the plans ahead? Do you think Calcutta Music scene will get bigger with CR in 2010?
CR: Yes, definitely. We are planning for an EP release this January. Hope it works out according to our expectations.

The music scene in Calcutta is really booming fast, there are a lot of bands with enormous promise and having Cynical Recess in 2010 will definitely help boost up the spirits of the younger bands out. We hope to set a good example in the circuit so that the young bands can actually look up to us and set a goal for them.

IRMP3 : Is there anyone you guys would like to thank for moral or financial support?
CR: Yes, we humbly thank our parents for their overwhelming support and love towards our music. Its only cause of their well wishes and blessings that we have achieved so much till date. We would also like to raise a toast to Suraj for his share of financial support to the band and then of course our dedicated friends and fans, who always make it a point to be present at our in station gigs, we do have sell out shows in Kolkata by the way, and that’s only cause of the CR fanatics. We love you guys.

Cynical Recess Team.

I have been living outside Calcutta for sometime and seldom feel the urge to return to the city. An occasional trip or two is fine, but not permanent settlement.

Having said that let me add that living in Uttar Pradesh isn’t special, neither. Once you’ve uprooted yourself, most other places you go to stay in appear the same — distant and impersonal.

True, it takes time to build an attachment and make friends. Three years aren’t long enough for this. But then I don’t feel the urge to drop anchor, at least not here. Neither can I prime myself to go out and seek people I can befriend.

Frankly, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with the city I live in or its people — just that I can’t imagine myself dying in a concrete jungle full of big cars, human beings forever on the go and fast drying greenery. Many years ago, Bhupen Hazarika had sung Aami Ek Jajabor (I am a nomad). Well, I don’t exactly call myself that.

I can’t run my life out of railway platforms and must have a place to call home. I can’t do without the comforts of life — a car, air conditioning in summer, a clean bed to sleep in and a clean loo.

Since a nomad never craves for any of these, I am not one of that tribe. Some years ago, I went to Darjeeling, Kalimpong, Kurseong and Shillong. A quaint little house in any of these hill towns would be wonderful. A cabin by the river at Corbett or Renukaji in Himachal would be a dream come true.

Would that happen, ever? There’s no harm dreaming. But what about the concomitants — medical facilities, children’s education and a steady source of income.

Precisely. Think of them and you’re jolted out of your reverie. Somewhere down the line, the practicalities always take over. I am driven by my expectations from life, also by the requirement to fulfill others’ needs.

I don’t have a business seeing myself in a peaceful mountain existence, at least not now when there are miles to go and commitments to honour, bills to pay.

But this doesn’t discourage me. There will come a time when all will be done. The children would have grown up, loans repaid and no elders to take care of.

The mountains would still be there and hopefully they’d be just as alluring as they are now. Nothing would have blemished Renukaji’s pristine beauty and the view of the Kanchenjungha from the Mall in Darjeeling would remain as spellbinding. Darjeeling’s rumbling meadows wouldn’t have gone bald.

Someday, this small-town man whose journey began from a faraway Orissa village in the woods would find a place to rest, removed from the rush and storm of tinned-air existence.

Till then, this traveler would pitch a tent wherever life takes him and call it home — just waiting for the right port to drop anchor.

During our visit to Calcutta, I have dragged Elliot to several sites commemorating the lives of two of my favorite human beings: Rabindranath Tagore and Sri Ramakrishna. We have traveled hours out of our way to visit the locations where these two amazing men lived their lives. Let me tell you a bit about each of them.

Rabindranath Tagore is often referred to as “the poet laureate of India”. He was the scion of a legendary Bengali family. His grandfather Dwarkanath was one of the founders of the religious movement Brahmo Samaj, which believes in the inherent equality of all religions and focuses on one all-encompassing deity. It’s basically the Unitarianism of India. Dwarkanath was so respected, he was referred to as “Prince Dwarkanath” and was awarded his own coat-of-arms by Her Majesty the Queen of England.

Rabindranath’s father was Debendranath, who was a famous leader of the Bengali Rennaisance movement. Like his father before him, he preached against archaic Hindu practices such as suttee (where a widow will self-immolate at the funeral pyre of her deceased husband). He was so respected, he was given his own title, “Maharshi”.

Rabindranath, however, is the most famous of them all. He became a prized poet and writer, and won the Nobel Prize for his poetic collection “Gitanjali” (Gitanjali can be translated into “Song Offerings”). Gitanjali happens to be one of the best poetic collections of all time, by the way. Fun fact.

Tagore was also knighted, but forfeited his knighthood in reaction to the massacre at Amritsar, when the British fired upon unarmed Indians. While believing that the West had much to offer the East, Tagore was an ardent patriot who counted Ghandi among his close friends. Ghandi referred to Tagore as “Gurudev”, making Rabindranath the third linear generation of his family to be so famous as to have his own unique title.

Rabi also founded his own university and ashram at Shantiniketan (Shanti = Peace, Niketan = Abode, hence “Abode of Peace) called Visvabharata. His students include very famous artists, and Indira Ghandi (PM of India) studied at Visvabharata.

We visited Shantiniketan on Monday, and walked through the same buildings in which Tagore had taught his own students. Ambling through the university, we marveled at the various works of art which had been installed on campus as expressions of the students’ artistic expression. I spied a young student drawing a sketch of a small banyan tree, and was so moved by the intellectual and artistic thirst inherent in this simple action that I felt obliged to compliment her on her drawing. She smiled shyly, and we moved away.

The classrooms at Visvabharata are all outdoors, with concrete semi-circles installed in a sweeping arborous landscape. We sat down for a moment and stared out at the dormitories, then continued on.

At the Bolpur train station nearby, we saw the actual carriage car upon which Tagore took his last trip, from Shantiniketan to his home in Calcutta. A day later, we visited Tagore’s home, with exhibitions showing Tagore in his travels. Towards the end of his life, Tagore traveled to several countries a year, giving speeches and sharing his thoughts on life, culture, and India’s spiritual heritage. I teared up when standing in the room where Tagore died; he happens to be one of my favorite poets.

Tagore’s writing is distinctly anchored in Indian society; it is arguably quite difficult to understand much of his mystical poetry without having a basic understanding of Hinduism, and the tranenscendentalist beliefs of Brahmo Samaj and Eastern mysticism more specifically. But at the same time, Tagore’s poetry is profoundly universal.

Since I cannot possibly do justice to Tagore through mere description, allow me to provide you with one of my favorite of Tagore’s poems. This is often referred to as “My Prayer” (Tagore often would not name his poems) from his Nobel Prize-winning collection, Gitanjali:

This is my prayer to thee, my Lord — strike, strike at the root of penury in my heart.
Give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows.
Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service.
Give me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before insolent might.
Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles.
And give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with love.

Later I’ll try to write a little something about Sri Ramakrishna.

Until then,

J&E

Maharaja Runjeet Singh’s Army

Reproduced from The Times (London), August 27, 1833. [Page 6; Column 2]

A discussion has recently been revived by one of the up-country newspapers regarding the means at the command of Russia for an invasion of India. However farcical the scheme may at first sight appear, it is as well not to be totally indifferent to the power of the wily autocrat, nor to disregard altogether the suggestion of clever practical men who have certain means of forming an estimate of the capacity of our enemies and of the countries through which they may chance to come. With this idea, and in consideration of’ the contiguity of the Maharajah Runjeet Sing, Chief of the Seicks, to the southerly Russian provinces, we send you herewith a sketch of the Seick army, which will no doubt be read with interest:-

The Seick army of the Punjaub was, so late as the commencement of the current century, a mere military confederacy of predatory horse, and that gallant but unfortunate adventurer, George Thomas, considered them as the most contemptible troops in Hindostan. The talent of Runjeet Sing has, within the last 25 years, established the military reputation of the Seicks, and this Prince now possesses a regular army accustomed to war, full of ardour, and jealous of renown; the Seicks possess many qualities, which admirably fit them for a military life; they are individually brave and athletic, and are free from the prejudice of caste which detract from the military classes of the native soldiery of British India. A Seick will eat of anything but beef*; his religion never requires him to undress at hill meals, nor does it prescribe fasts, or inculcate anything to interfere with the duties of a soldier; like the soldier of Europe, the Seicks are, however, not averse to the use of fermented liquors, and their Sirdars are notoriously addicted to the vice of drunkenness.

To venerate the cow*, to cherish the growth of the beard, and to abstain from the use of tobacco, are the great national characteristics of the Seicks, and the latter trait is peculiarly their own. Such being the national attributes, Runjeet Sing has (through the instrumentality of foreign officers) remodeled the Seick army; and it is only within the last 12 years that European discipline and tactics have been adopted: this was accomplished by Messieurs Allard and Ventura, who had served in the Persian army, and having obtained their discharge and letters of recommendation, were the first European officers who reached Lahore overland, and were instantly taken into the service of the Maha Raja.

The French legion of cavalry, was formed by Monsieur Allard, senior; their uniform is blue with red facings, they are armed with the Po1ish lance, swords and pistols; their system is that of the French Lancers. The men of these corps are much attached to General Allard, and these troops only require a few more European officers to be nearly on a par with our regular Native Cavalry.

The regular infantry, under General Ventura, are also disciplined in the French drill; the words of command are mostly French; they are armed with firelocks and bayonets; these troops are regularly paid and clothed. Runjeet Singh’s own personal body guard is a kind of legion of honour; these men are all arrayed in gorgeous dresses and rich armour, and compose the elite of the army. Their appearance in their red dresses with heron’s plumes, and their martial aspect and blunt demeanour is truly imposing; these men are all tried shots, and at 80 yards can generally hit a small brass pot every time with a matchlock.

The foreigners or Hindoostanies of the Seick army are men from the provinces of British India, and receive a stipulated monthly pay; many of the Seick soldiers receive rations of grain, besides their pay. The avarice of Runjeet Sing has sometimes occasioned mutiny amongst the regular infantry: in one instance the Ghoorka battalion, on being deprived of a portion of their pay, refused to receive the residue, and as no attention was paid to their complaint, open revolt ensued. Runjeet Singh directed some cavalry to charge the mutineers: the Ghoorka battalion formed square and beat off the Cavalry; the Maha Raja then became alarmed, and retired to the fort of Gobind Ghur, when the French officers interposed, and induced the Ghoorkas to retire to their lines.

Monsieur Allard, the General of the regular cavalry, was distinguished officer in imperial army of France, and is a man of high character and conciliatory manners; he adopts the Seick costume in allowing his beard to grow, and has married a native woman; this officer wishes to return to France and has been endeavouring to induce the Maha Rajah to allow his younger brother to take charge of his command during his absence.

Monsieur Ventura, General of Infantry, served under Eugene Beauharnois in Napoleon’s Russian campaign; he is a brave and intelligent officer, but violent man. Runjeet Singh keeps a watchful eye on his European Officers, and does not readily give service to those individuals who receive passports from the British Government.

The Horse Artillery of Runjeet’s army consist of guns of small calibre, and their field equipments resemble that of our late Foot Batteries; and consequently such artillery would be utterly unable to cope with our Horse Artillery; still, as these guns are drawn by horses, their fire would be always available, which is not the case with Bullock Artillery.

General Abstracts of the Forts, Ordnance, and Army of  Maha Raja Runjcet Singh:-

Forts ————————————————————————————10

Guns in ditto ————————————————————————-108

Ditto in Horse Artillery, commanded by a Native ——————————-58

Ditto in Foot Artillery, commanded by a Native ——————————-142

Mortars ———————————————————————————-9

Jumboorahs, or Zumborahs, or swivel guns, mounted on camels ————305

Irregular Cavalry commanded by Natives ———————————–43,300

Regular Cavalry commanded by Monsieur Allard —————————5,200

Infantry commanded by three other French Officers —

Regiments ———————————————————————-6

Infantry commanded by Native Officers, 17 Regiments, each consisting up from 900 to 15,000 men.

Grand total of the Army ——————————————————–73,000

In 1793, adds our Meerut contemporary, Tippoo Sultan’s field Army was estimated at 47,470 fighting men, and his revenues at one crore of rupees. Runjeet Singh’s army amounts to 73,000 men, and his revenues to one crore and 80 lakhs of rupees.

~ ~ ~

The Afghan Campaign

The Times (London), October 24, 1935 [page ? column 6]

Advices from Calcutta to the 12th of May have arrived. The movements of the contending parties in the north of India were watched with much interest by the British residents in India, and that war, though on a small scale, was considered the most important political event which has occurred in the East India for many years. The result, it was expected, would materially affect the interests of England, inasmuch as the defeat of Runjeet Singh would much increase the Russo-Persian influence in those dominions. The two powers, the Afghans and the Sikhs were concentrating their forces near to the passes of the Khybar, where the dispute was to be decided by force of arms. The Afghans are well mounted, brave and desperate combatants, while the Sikhs are equally determined, in a high state of discipline, officered by Europeans (mostly Frenchmen), and in great numbers. The struggle, therefore, was expected to be sanguinary. Runjeet Singh, the Rajah of Punjab, Lahore, and Cashmere, with their immense dependencies, or, as he is denominated in India, “The Lion of the North, and Rajah of the Five Waters,” is himself a faithful ally and supporter of the interests of the Company, while Dost Mahommed Khan is hostile to their views; so that it is argued, should the former be overthrown, the Company would be compelled to extend their territory to the banks of the Indus. M. Allard, the commander-in-chief of Runjeet’s army, has arrived at Paris within a very few days, for the purpose of procuring workmen to take out with him to cast balls, as he had not succeeded in teaching the natives of Cashmere to do it, although he had made them very efficient in casting cannon. Madame Allard is the daughter of a Prince of Lahore, and has five children, who are now in Paris at a Catholic boarding-school. Runjeet Singh is a man of about 55 years of age, but as infirm as an ordinary man at 80 or 85. His eldest son, aged about 25, who will succeed him in his vast authority, a vain, ambitious man, has openly declared his abhorrence of the East India Company, and his willingness to assist in making inroads into the British possessions

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Footnotes

* It seems that the Sikh farmers’ dependence on cows for milk and oxen for tilling the land, was mistaken for “veneration of cow”. Regarding beef-eating, it has to be kept in mind that only Muslims were slaughtering cows for beef and Sikhs are prohibited to eat meat slaughtered in the Muslim way. Sikhs themselves had many uses for the cow during its useful life and old or sick animal was not fit for consumption — Sikh Centre

I don’t know if there is an inside story here. But Kabir Suman’s public outburst against his party and his claims of feeling “enslaved” in the Trinamool Congress set up have been distressing.

Suman’s disenchantment with politics and politicians has come pretty early in the day. Months into his maiden Lok Sabha stint, he says he will resign from his membership and return to strumming the guitar.

Personally speaking, I find his poetry powerful and ballads such as Ishrat Jahan-Phulmani impressive. It reflects the political consciousness of a cerebral person. That he would find little elbow room in Trinamool politics was apparent. He was bound to find the world of politics restricting. But this soon? I never knew him to be a quitter.

His decision to join Mamata Banerjee’s ranks had surprised me. But I suspect issues such as deprivation, land alienation and lack of governance had swayed him, not so much the leader herself. He had thrown in his lot with those who were articulating concerns of the wronged and the voiceless.

He won Jadavpur, a prestigious parliamentary seat and hoped to change things around the way he would like to. It took all of six months for his dreams to sour for he immediately ran into a bunch of old-school, career politicians who thrive on receiving and doling out patronage.

Suman cried foul saying the party’s local leadership was stopping him from spending his MPLADS funds and pushing him hard in their bid to make him a rubber-stamp MP. But as he erupted in anger, was the balladeer-with-a-baritone hoping that his party boss would console him and make life simpler?

If this was the hope he was nursing, he was naïve. For, Suman and issues bothering him are unlikely to be on Banerjee’s radar screen, especially when she has things going for her, winning election after election battering the Left Front out of shape.

Her reaction to Suman’s broadside showed her unconcern. Derisively perhaps, she called the singer trying to sound like a politician a “guest” in her party and insisted there was little to worry.

The response struck me as odd. In many years, for the first time, the Trinamool had made a headway into Bengal’s intellectual community. Filmmakers, painters and authors had migrated to her page. The early spans of a Trinamool-literati bridge had just been laid. Would it be wise to let cracks appear on them this early?

By all means Suman’s grievances could have been better addressed. Did she give the aggrieved party a hearing? Perhaps she did, but didn’t have the patience to calm an angry soul. Or she didn’t think the dissonance serious enough to intervene personally.

On his own, the Jadavpur MP can cause limited damage to the party and its chances. But in my opinion it could be counterproductive to disregard his protest. If it is the dream of a clean, blemish-free set up that Banerjee wants to sell to the electorate, she would immediately score with a serious response and steps to mend things.

The Trinamool is still in the process of digging in. The party is still under construction. Opinions are being shaped, dreams being sold, visions shared. A controversy such as this was best avoided.

As for Suman, he realised his folly a bit too late in the day and at great cost to both his party and the people he represents. He calls himself a misfit in politics. By his own admission, he is a political person, but way too troublesome to be in politics.

Even as he says this, Suman doesn’t seem to realise that he too sold a dream to those who elected him to the House. To leave them high and dry is no less a crime. Elections are held at great cost to the public exchequer. You and I pay for them. Months into office, if Suman opts out it would bring upon us yet another bypoll with it humungous expenses. A further drain of the treasury.

The Suman episode was best avoided. For, it has left an avoidable blot on the fledgling hopes of change that the Bengal electorate has been nursing over the past months.

I didn’t particularly like going to school. It was always unpleasant and a torture.

I joined a Calcutta school at age five straight out of the jungles of Orissa and was flung into the jaws of a fearsome class teacher who detained me in class at the drop of a hat.

If I got sums wrong, she kept me back. If my Bengali spellings went all over the place she made me overstay. And in all this tribulation I had a constant companion in lanky Krishna Tiwari.

These punishment sessions did not particularly bother Tiwari. He put up with them with a smirk. But they broke my heart. The very experience of staying an extra hour in the dull classroom was painful. Worse still was missing the minibus that I rode to school every day.

I never could bring myself to follow the diktats of my teacher, many of which struck me as without reason. For instance, she demanded that we memorise a poem everyday. Learning by rote and parroting verses was never my forte and I defied her knowing fully well that she’d punish me.

Nonetheless, I soldiered on. When I went to Class III, I ran into a brute. He made life unbearable. One day he had told the class to sit still and ordered “pin-drop silence”. I had turned my head to catch a classmate whispering something to a neighbour. That was it.

He dragged me by my ear that nearly came unstuck, hauled me to the front of the classroom and slapped me till I was dizzy. In a subsequent torture session, he marched a classmate and me to the principal’s office. I was summarily told that I was being kicked out.

The charge against me, my mom later informed, was that I had ripped up an exercise book to manufacture paper rockets. This was a damn lie. This chap didn’t like my face and had framed me.

The insult of standing forlornly in the principal’s office, head hanging in shame scarred me for life. Mom rushed to Calcutta from Orissa to plead with the principal not to throw me out, which he readily agreed.

The price — I had to enroll in the brute’s tuition classes when he suddenly turned affable praising my efforts and lauding my mended ways.

Such was my disgust with all those who had turned school into a concentration camp that secretly I regretted having to go back to the brick and mortar jailhouse. It would have been fantastic had mom simply taken me away to my jungle home in Orissa and not beseeched the principal to retain me.

That incident turned me against the establishment for good. In later years, I had teachers throwing dusters at me, flogging me with belts and slapping me silly. I turned pigheaded and steadfastly refused to learn poems by heart, was a disaster in mathematics and routinely flunked my term examinations pulling through only in the third term to move on to a higher class.

On one occasion, I was clambering up a pile of bricks piled high on the field. It was fun racing up and down a brick hill. From nowhere the maths teacher fetched up on the spot and in full public view boxed my ears and slapped me across the face flinging me metres away. The teacher was abusive and rude.

Any way, one had to go through school. You didn’t have an option, especially since the institution I went to was among the best in the city.

I was greatly relieved the day my ordeal ended. I finished Class XII and joined college. Education began then — great teachers, wonderful atmosphere and subjects that I loved studying.

To this day it strikes me as odd when I hear people talk of their fun days at school. For me the experience was nightmarish — one that left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Shot at Baboo Rajchunder Doss Ghaut aka Babu Ghat.