What is it about mediocrity that makes it so infectious? Some kind of warped comfort, or complacence? What is it exactly that makes people revel in it and look disdainfully at any potential threat to this state of existence? Do you know?
What baffles me even more is the intrinsic connection between this affliction and Bengalis. I know, I sound like a self-loathing Bengali right now but if you've ever worked in Calcutta you'll know what I'm talking about.
Oh, its a great place to study, read Orwell and Ayn Rand and Tagore (not necessarily in that order), to watch theatre and films, go to art exhibitions and handicraft fairs. There is enough and more of 'culture' in Kolkata. Though what that exactly is, I am yet to fathom. You have chartered accountants and doctors and other such 'established' (read affluent) figures of Calcutta society frequenting the many country clubs that the city has, and over their Teachers' and Black Labels listen dispassionately to a Rabindrasangeet recital organised by way of the weekend's entertainment. Of course, this is in the intermittent time when they can look up from their blackberries. Its so beautifully done. These clubs, which charge on an average Rs 1.5 lakh in membership fees and have a minimum of 2 years in waiting time, take it upon themselves to acquaint these good men with 'culture'. But they do it with this beautiful subtlety. Like a caring nurse would slip a bitter pill into her patient's food and make sure the offensive taste were not discernible, these clubs arrange 'cultural evenings' for their esteemed members to make sure
they dont need to worry about finding the cultural dose and nothing comes across as forced or in-your-face. So the babus sit, quite like their fathers and grandfathers, on the club verandas and lawns on moonlit summer evenings and distractedly try to process 'Dibosho rojoni ami jeno kar aashye aashye thaki', reprimand the bearer for not refilling their glasses quicker and thus pop their custom-made pill of 'culture'. Of course at the end of the show they go up to the artiste and compliment them on their outfits and say how they're seen on tv everyday. This interaction is also very Bengali. Shows a keen, observant mind and summarily distinguishes Bengalis from that most vile category of uncultured, money-minded human beings: 'non-Bengalis'. (I've always been intrigued by this nomenclature. But lets leave that musing for another day)
Anyhow, as I was saying before this digression...culture. Calcutta, no doubt has a lot of it. Idealism too. Let me give you an example. Humour me.
The other day my sister R, Krum and I went to Shoppers' Stop, on Elgin Road. R picked up a set of play dough for my nephew and a set of underwear for herself (she'd forgotten to pack in her bag of undies in Bombay!) and went to the billing counter. Meanwhile, Krum and I were roaming around place, with me hinting at him to buy me something. Suddenly, we sensed a commotion in the billing counter and saw my sister (who is 4 months pregnant, btw) in a heated argument with the guy behind the counter. It so happened that R was carrying my brother in law's debit card which didnt have a signature behind it. The morally upright man behind the counter refused to accept it. FYI, R has used the same card at various SS branches across India without any problem. We tried to convince this man that we were buying play dough worth less than Rs 200 and that we could just go out withdraw cash with that same card. But he remained inflexible. At this point, Krum very authoritatively called for the manager. This fat replica of Paoli Dam came up, determined to be nice but unhelpful. Anyhow, to cut a long story short, SS Elgin Road refused to allow R to use her husband's debit card to buy play dough. The suggestion that any other guy could have easily signed as R's husband did not cut any ice with them. They remained smug in their own misplaced sense of uprightness and ideals or whatever the hell they call it. The three of us stormed out hurling admonitions to the air, united by our indignation.
You get the general drift. Culture and idealism are both rampant in Calcutta. Trying to work here, however, is a different ballgame altogether. The all powerful 'They' wont work, nor will They let you work. Funny sort of people. Not to say that they're not nice. In fact on the face of it most are quite agreeable. But their incompetence inevitable gets the better of them and you and you end up loathing the buggers. Stupidity and inefficiency are taken to unscaled heights here. I really really do need to leave my job. I do. I do.
Its too ranty a post for Poila Baisakh. But I just dont feel 'new' or delighted or hilarious right now. Also, I'm down with this horrible ear-throat infection so that every night I get this sharp pain in my right ear, and my throat feels all scratchy. So bad news all around.
Also, as if this weren't enough its started raining cats and dogs in this part of town which mean a) I'll get my feet wet and suffer from a sore throat for the next 2 weeks b) It will be next to impossible to get any mode of transport out of here. c) My clothes will smell funny for the next few days. I HATE the rain. In a city as dirty as Cal, it just shouldn't rain. Period.
Anyway, this post has suddenly become WAY longer than I intended it to be. For what it's worth, Shubho Naboborsho to all.
