Genius has a new addy!

When I first started to blog, at least two friends -- one in the US and the other one in Dilli -- were seriously sceptical about how long I would continue to blog. It took about two months to silence the doubters, and then six more to prove that their original misgivings were not entirely unfounded.

In the meanwhile, I had a ball. Between April 18 and October 29, I thoroughly enjoyed posting my opinions on all kinds of issues. I enjoyed the responses almost as much I enjoyed my posts. And then the last two months happened. Matters beyond my control combined with an uncharacteristic unwillingness to pontificate to ensure that Pontiff wasn't in his favourite corner.

Now I am afraid I think it is time to move on. I enjoy blogging way too much to stop. But I am moving to a new address. I don't know how many of my friends ever drop in here any longer. But if and when you do, look me up at the new addy, which is :

www.rajanchakravarty.blogspot.com

The blog is called Postcards From The Edge.

Bhery Phunny!

Jo and Woh were two very good friends. And then one day, Jo got scared. And Woh died.

Guess why?

Arey baba, simple...

Jo Dar Gaya Woh Mar Gaya

Hopefully There Is A Method In This Madness

So, The Wall has been breached. Not by a wily opposition, but by five wise men who were once rather eloquently described by Mohinder Amarnath as "a bunch of jokers".

Not that Rahul Dravid, one of only six international cricketers to have scored more than 10,000 one-day runs, would find anything remotely funny in the recent turn of events that finds him out of the Indian cricket side after just one poor series -- that, too, against the world's best cricket team.

For the past couple of seasons, Dravid has increasingly played as the floater in the Indian one-day batting line up. While Sachin Tendulkar and Sourav Ganguly have both clearly stated their preference to open the innings, Dravid had taken upon himself the tough role of a finisher.

During the last series against Australia, it appeared that the new Indian skipper Mahendra Singh Dhoni preferred the hardhitting Robin Uthappa as the side's designated finisher. For the first time in a long and distinguished career, Dravid looked out of sorts in a line up that had the senior pros Tendulkar and Ganguly as openers, the prolific Yuvraj Singh as the new middle-order pivot and Dhoni and Uthappa as finishers.

If such a line up is the blueprint for future, with Ganguly making way for a young tyro somewhere along the future, then there is nothing wrong in axing Dravid. As long as someone in the Indian cricket board had the courtesy to explain in advance to Dravid, the reasons behind his non-selection.

If the dropping, or resting if you may please, of India's most reliable batsman, has anything to do with one bad series against the Australians (and I suspect it being a case of the latter rather than the former) then it is just another sad example of the knee-jerk reaction of a selection comittee that appears even more confused than its predecessor.

The Chairman of selectors, Dilip Vengsarkar not for the first time contradicted himself when he first said that Dravid has been "rested" for the first two one-dayers against Pakistan and then said the senior pro would have to prove his "form and fitness" if he hoped to come back to the Indian team.

Dravid has never been known to be fleet of foot on the field, but he is perhaps India's best slips fielder in both Tests (along with VVS Laxman) and one-dayers. It is difficult to imagine how his agility on the field or his catching in a four-day match for Karnataka is going to help him to return to the Indian one-day side.

If Dravid's ouster from the side raised a few eyebrows, then the decision to bring back Virender Sehwag, not by a long shot in prime form, baffled even more people.

Sehwag was up and down during the Twenty20 World Cup and then again in the recently concluded Challenger series. Every solid performance was followed by a failure, not exactly the sign of a man in form. Having said that, he is just one innings away from his best form is a cricketing adage that fits no one better than Sehwag.

Sehwag's inclusion makes sense only if you are ready to view him as a batting allrounder and utilize the offspin bowling option that he provides. If the Indian team management decide to go in with four specialist bowling options, plus Sehwag, then it does allow the side to play an additional specialist batsman -- either Gautam Gambhir or Rohit Sharma.

Many moons ago, Sourav Ganguly had come up with the inspired decision to ask Dravid to keep wickets. In the bargain, India had got a world class batsman at the number seven slot. In case, Sehwag is groomed as a batting allrounder, it would allow the Indian side to take the field with additional batting firepower.

My ideal eleven for the first one-dayer against Pakistan would be : Sachin Tendulkar, Sourav Ganguly, Virender Sehwag, Gautam Gambhir, Yuvraj Singh, Mahendra Singh Dhoni, Robin Uthappa, Irfan Pathan, Murali Karthik, Zaheer Khan and S Sreesanth.

Though I daresay the Indian management would play safe and go in with five specialist bowlers. In place of Gautam Gambhir, Harbhajan Singh would come in. Gambhir is in the form of his life (and you can't say the same about Bhajji) and it would be a pity if he was confined to the dressing room. It is difficult to imagine though that the selectors would select Sehwag and not play him in the eleven.

Given the fact that Pakistan is arriving with their first-choice bowling attack -- Shoaib Akhtar, Mohammad Asif and Umar Gul -- in a long long time, it remains to be seen how the Indian selectors go about their job, not just in the first two matches, but during the rest of the series as well.

As India look for a winning combination that would serve the side well, leading up to the next World Cup, Dhoni and Co could experiment with Irfan Pathan as a new ball bowler. In his heydays Pathan used to be a handful with the new white ball.

Now that Pathan is once again back in the side as a regular, Dhoni could toss the new ball to the erstwhile Sultan of Swing and see whether he can still bring the new white ball back into right handed batsmen with the same devastating effect.

Also in the Indian squad are the young Mumbai middle order bat Rohit Sharma who made such an impressive debut in the Twenty20 World Cup, and rookie all-rounder Praveen Kumar. The tall, well built Kumar is nowhere near express but can be quite nippy on his day and has a happy knack of picking wickets, as he showed during the recently-concluded Challenger Series.

Add to that his ability to wield the long handle, one is not surprised why the selectors, despairing the lack of all-rounders,have so promptly drafted him into the squad. It, however, remains to be seen if Kumar has the ability to deliver the goods at the highest level, or more importantly whether he would even get the opportunity to display his skills.

Some compliment, this!

If India has six better Test batsmen than the Hyderabadi, then my name is Virender.

PETER ROEBUCK on VVS Laxman

Sukumar Ray Didn't Pen This One...

I don't know who wrote this one. Had a laugh reading it. Hope you will have a good time, reading this...

Through the jongole I am went

On shooting Tiger I am bent

Boshtaard Tiger has eaten wife

No doubt I will avenge poor darling's life

Too much quiet, snakes and leeches

But I not fear these sons of beeches

Hearing loud noise I am jumping with start

But noise is coming from damn fool's heart

Taking care not to be fright

I am clutching rifle tight with eye to sight

Should Tiger come I will shoot and fall him down

Then like hero return to native town

Then through trees I am espying one cave

I am telling self - "Bannerjee be brave"

I am now proceeding with too much care

From far I smell this Tiger's lair

My leg shaking, sweat coming, I start to pray

I think I will shoot Tiger some other day

Turning round I am going to flee

But Tiger giving bloody roar spotting this Bengalee

He bounding from cave like football player Pele

I run shouting

"Kali Ma tumi kothay gele"

Through the jongole I am running

With Tiger on my tail closer looming

I am a telling that never in life

I will risk again for my damn fool wife!!!!

Aashchhe Bochhor Abar Hobe

Much as I love blogging, spending Nobomi morning hunched over my laptop wasn't part of the original plan. But things have come to such a pass, with wife and son both down with viral fever, and lovingly returning my favour of tending to them by passing on their infection to me, this is the best on-the-spur-of-the-moment Plan B I could come up with.

Not that Plan A was likely to be any different than other years. Deemer Devil in Kaalibari, Kosha Mangsho in Chittoranjan Park, downing vodkas till late in the night, listening to Mone Podey Ruby Rai blaring as you enter the Rajender Nagar mandap -- that's been pretty much Pujo in Delhi the past few years.

I am more of a Probashi (non-resident) Baangali than a true-blue Delhi Bong. As a bona fide Delhi Bong, one should have ideally been a student of Raisinha Bengali School, one should have spent some, if not considerable, part of one's misspent youth in Chittaranjan Park, and one should be able to speak incorrect Baangla with a certain degree of confidence.

I can't rightfully lay claims to none of the above. And while my command over Baangla is not what it used to be, you still wouldn't catch me introducing myself, a la lot of Delhi Bongs, as : "Ami Baangali hochhi". Years ago, when I first heard that, I couldn't help but retort : "Aato din ki chhili, bhai?"

This Pujo I had made grand plans of spending it with my odd assortment of cousins and uncles in Kolkata. The idea was to indulge in a serious food fest, now that the days of drinking binges are sadly behind me, thanks to those darned clogged arteries. On good days, I romanticize the arteries being filled with vodka and orange juice and butter chicken. On bad days I know better -- it is those bad marriage days that have clogged them arteries.

Anyway, back to my joyous plans for the City of Joy. I would kick off the food fest with Naan and Kosha Mangsho, washed down with a glass (or may be a few bottles?) of beer, on Shoshthi evening at Amber with Partho, more a brother than a brother in law, and Jhili.

Another option was Mutton Biriyani and Kebabs at Zeeshan's, opposite Partho's house in Park Circus. Legend has it there is more oil in Zeeshan's Kosha Mangsho than in entire Saudi Arabia. If he sees me eating there, Sanjay Mittal, my cardiologist, would have a cardiac arrest. On second thoughts Zeeshan is avoidable.

Shoptomi morning, lazing in the bed, may be even catch a movie on HBO or Star Movies. Or may be a shopping expedition to Rashbehari Aveneue to buy a Punjabi (Did I ever tell you about the chaos -- and consternation -- caused aboard Rajdhani Express many moons ago when a train attendant, in an unmistakably Bengali accent that Pronob Babu would have been mighty proud of, announced: "A Punjabi has been found in the bathroom, owner may collect.") One of those Baatik designed kurtas that you would never find at Fab India.

How about Shoptomi evening with Bappa Da, sampling the culinary delights of Park Street?

My favourite Park Street restaurant used to be Skyroom, which shut down years ago. Then it was Waldrof. I used to love the Peking duck at Waldrof. After closing down in 2003, the restaurant relocated on Russell Street, but the food wasn't the same, and worse, the old charm was gone for ever. Today there's no Skyroom, no Waldrof, no Blue Fox. But you can still have that tall glass of Tom Colins in Mocambo. And then try some Chelo Kabab at the slightly rundown Peter Cat.

But don't fret. Nostalgia may take a beating on the newlook Park Street, but Kolkata still offers as many gastronomical choices as Calcutta did. When he heard I was coming down for Pujo, Borokaku had promised a grand Oshtomi dinner at Mainland China, the restaurant that keeps the Chinese flag flying in Kolkata.

Oh, the best laid plans of mice and men! Instead, I had paaurooti (Bengali for bread) dipped in lemon coriander chicken soup from East Patel Nagar's pride, the Baithak restaurant.

BOO-FRIGGIN-HOO.

Twelve hours and a sleepless night later, we are into the aforementioned Nobomi morning, with yours truly hunched over the laptop.

Aashchhe Bochhor Abar Hobe? No way, Baapi!

I am ashamed of being a Bengali, How about You?

I have often asked myself who am I? And while it is easy to say I am an Indian, a bloody proud Indian at that, and every now and then I see myself as a world citizen too. I am not sure if I am a Hindu, not that I am least bit inclined to join any other religion. Truth be told though I am, and have been all my life, an unabashed Bengali.

Everytime I have had the opportunity to do so, I have unequivocally stated "Ami Baangali".

Over the years I have celebrated everything Bengali. I have been rather impressed about the manner we appropriated Jose Barreto from Brazil, Mother Teresa from Albania and Kanchenjungha from Sikkim. "Shala Indira (Gandhi) puro Sikkim niye nilo, aar amra aakta Kanchenjungha nilei joto dosh", a friend of mine had once reasoned. I am not going to translate that, but try arguing with that logic!

Apart from pride, I have felt a certain degree of comfort in being a Bengali. Some of the finest books I have ever read are in Bengali. I dare say there are few better writers in any language than Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyay or Sukumar Ray. I simply relish Bangla food -- from luchi aar kosha mangsho to murighonto to shutki maachh to muger daler peethe. I have no doubt at all that Sourav Ganguly has been India's best cricket captain ever.

More than anything else though I have enjoyed being a Bengali because it gives you a certain liberal aura, a secular credential, which is good for your peace of mind. Today I am most miffed, nay deeply upset, because for the first time I find my identity a burden, a shame.

To be sure, when a predominantly Bhadralok crowd lynches a poor pickpocket to death, I feel terrible. When crowds misbehave in Eden Gardens, my blatantly Bengali heart bleeds too. I have cringed when someone tells me that Bengal has the highest number of custodial deaths in the country. First Singur and then Nandigram left me shaken as well as stirred. But I have always believed -- even defended -- such acts as part of deviant behaviour for which you can't hold an entire state responsible.

Last few weeks though, my belief as a Bengali, and my faith in Bengal has taken an unprecedented battering. It is bad enough that the coldblooded killing of Rizwanur, a 3o-year-old graphics teacher who had dared to marry the Hindu daughter of a powerful business tycoon, is being passed off as suicide at a time when there is enough circumstantial evidence to suggest that if even he wasn't physically pushed in front of a train, he was definitely pressurised and pushed to take that drastic step.

More than the government's response, what is far more difficult to stomach is the state of denial people of Bengal choose to live in. Bengalis are known to issue or deny certificates on secularism to the rest of the world, appoint themselves custodians against imperialism, comment on incidents in Vietnam and Venezuela. And now they allow a Rizwanur to sit easy on their collective conscience.

For those who don't know about Rizwanur, these are the bare facts of the case.

Rizwanur Rahman was a 30-year old computer graphics teacher from Kolkata. He was also a Muslim who fell in love with and married a Hindu girl Priyanka Todi, who happened to be the daughter of Ashok Todi, a member of the Todi multimillion dollar Lux hosiery brand. Priyanka eloped and married Rizwanur on August 18, but her family lodged a missing persons report and eventually an abduction complaint against Rizwanur. The Kolkata police started harassing him to return his wife back to her family.

Priyanka did not want to go back to her family, but was told by the cops that her father was seriously ill. On September 8th, Rizwanur and Priyanka relented and she went back to live with her family for a week. The family however did not allow Priyanka to return back to Rizwanur.

On September 16, Rizwanur, realising that his wife would not be returned to him, sought help from the Association for Protection of Democratic Rights, a human rights organisation. In a written complaint to APDR, he stated that he wasn’t getting any help from the cops - in fact he was being harassed and pressurised by them.

Five days later, on September 21, Rizwanur Rahman was found dead, lying on the railway tracks between Dum Dum and Bidhannagar stations. Within literally minutes, the Kolkata police chief Prasun Bannerjee had declared Rizwanur had committed suicide.

This is not the first time in our secular socialist republic, a Hindu-Muslim marriage has resulted in death. Caste panchayats in large chunks of north India have -- regularly and with impunity -- ordered killings of young men and women who have married outside their castes or religion.

Bengal, you thought, was different. Who can forget the face of the man who lost his family in the Gujarat riots and was given a job and shelter in West Bengal? Now that face has been replaced in my mind and memory by that of Rizwanur Rahman.

There have been protests by members of the intelligentsia and odd articles in the media. But there has to be, there should have been, a bigger display of anger, a more sustained agitation against the West Bengal government's stand on the Rizwanur case. Isn't this after all a state where people take to the streets over a soccer match?

When I visited Ahmedabad during the 2002 anti-Muslim riots what bothered me was the promptness with which the Hindus I spoke to, dissociated themselves from the violence around them. "We don't know what was going on", "We didn't kill any Muslims", was always the stock response. As if their lack of knowledge or complicity somehow made the killings more acceptable.

Hungarian-born Gitta Sereny spent ten years in post-Second World War Germany and interviewed over 10,000 Germans, trying to find their guilt in the events leading up to the deaths of six million Jews. "Not a single person was willing to take even moral or emotional responsibility for what had happened," wrote a very perturbed Sereny. According to her, that attitude was as much to blame as Hitler's policies for the genocide.

Bengal can't afford a similar stand on Rizwanur. It can't hide behind the fig leaf of "It was suicide, and not murder". It doesn't matter if a frustrated Rizwanur threw himself before a train. You have to look at -- take a VERY HARD look -- the situation which prompted Rizwanur to take such a step. Not many years ago, another young man, a brother of mine, had chosen to end his life on the railway track. I know first hand the trauma, the turmoil that prompts one to take a step like that.

Earlier today, the West Bengal chief minister, facing flak from the media and under pressure from his own allies, ordered the transfer of the Calcutta police commissioner and four other police officials. For me, it is too less too late. Transfers are merely symbolic, and simply a politically expedient move. Albeit a step in the right direction, much more (read exemplary punishment) needs to be done, before Bengal or the West Bengal government can hold its head high.

About a hundred years ago, Rabindranath Tagore had returned his knighthood in protest, against the then Partition of Bengal. I have no fancy titles or medals to return to anyone. But if the West Bengal chief minister doesn't take prompt remedial action or if my beloved Bengal continues to live in denial on the Rizwanur issue, I might just give up something as dear to me as my life. My identity as a Baangali.

It is time Buddhababu and rest of Bengal realise that the difference between Modi and Todi should be more than just a letter in the English language.