Bengal Is
Bengal Is
By Nabanita Dutt
I had the misfortune once of having to visit a government office in Calcutta to get some papers signed by a middle-level official.
"But the big man is occupied at the moment", we were informed by his secretary, who was busily making preparations to take an
early lunch break. We can sit and wait.
Gesturing to the row of mismatched sofas arranged along one wall of the spacious reception area, Mr Secretary walked
purposefully over to the washbasin where he spent 10 minutes, noisily blowing his nose and washing his hands. Back at his desk,
he proceeded to dry his fingers - paying careful attention to each digit - with a handkerchief he had unfolded from his pocket. That
done, he delved into a capacious office bag and pulled out a plastic packet containing a grubby little tiffin box. For long moments,
the man stared fixedly at it -- a guess-what's-inside-today game he played perhaps at this time every afternoon. The box opened
finally to reveal Lunch -- 4 pieces of toast with jam, a banana and a hard-boiled egg.
Our friend selected one piece of bread, and before biting into it, queried: "Do you want some tea?" Startled by this question, my
friend and I, who were mesmerized by the man's progress with his Lunch, mumbled a hurried "no". Mr Secretary returned to his
food, one bread at a time, then the banana, then the egg, the debris collecting neatly in a pile on his desk. Stomach full at last,
the man let out a loud belch, and began the unpacking process in reverse order. Another trip to the washbasin, noisy cleaning of
hands and mouth, handkerchief used and folded away for the final time in his pocket. The ritual had taken 45 minutes. Finally,
Lunch was over.
"He will call you." Mr Secretary was settling down for a post-Lunch snooze.
"What paper is it that you want signed?" asked the man exasperatedly, waking long enough to show us his irritation.
I pulled out the sheets and handed them over. "Oh, these? No, no, this boss is not the guy. Go down to the first floor and turn
right after two doors. Ask somebody in the hall there for the Receipt department. They will show you." No sooner was the
sentence over, than his head dropped on the table and then there was no waking him for further clarifications. An hour wasted for
the pleasure of watching the man eat!
We carried on to the Receipt department, were sent to several departments, up and down the stairs, then up again until it was
Lunch break - the real one this time - and no official would be available for the next hour to look at our documents. "Come back
after 2 pm."
Another break for Lunch would be difficult to stomach, so we gave up the project midway and returned home.
"Patience is the key", we were told later by the agent who ultimately did the job for us. "Don't forget you're dealing with Bengalis."
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The worst place to encounter a Calcuttan (and by that I mean a Bengali) is at the workplace. Be it a clerk or a peon or a junior
manager - everybody is king of what little he surveys. And how does he exercise that power? By making your smallest
requirement of him, more complicated than rocket science. The phrase "Hobe na" ("Can't be done") can go down in the history of
languages as the contribution of Bengalis "in service", who, after retirement, look back at all the cups of tea, the extended Lunch
breaks, gossip, and making the simplest task difficult, and beam with satisfaction at a job well done.
The best place to get to know them, on the other hand, is on the street, in the marketplace, at parks, at traffic signals - any place
where the Bengali is not hard at work, trying to make a living. Bengalis at leisure are perhaps the friendliest and most informal
creatures on earth.
No need for an introduction. You can't be in Calcutta, and alone and friendless for long. A South African tourist once told me about
the amazing reaction he got from ordinary passersby, when he suffered a small bout of sun-sickness on a busy Calcutta street. "I
was holding onto this lamp post, fighting down waves of nausea, when I noticed a small crowd had gathered around me. They
enquired if I was feeling OK, and dispatched a young boy to get tea from a nearby tea stall. Then they hung around waiting for me
to finish the cup."
Having just arrived from Singapore and aching for some human contact, he welcomed this chance to talk. What he got, however,
was much more than he had bargained for. Questions flew in, fast and furious, from all sides - What is your name? Ah, O Connor,
so you must be Irish. How long are you here? What do you think of India? What do you think of Calcutta? Do you know this city is
known as the City of Joy? "In 15 minutes, I had more human contact than I'd had in my own neighborhood back home in the last
15 years!!"
It helps that the average Bengali speaks and understands English, so you don't have to resort to sign languages. (In Singapore,
where the most profound question in any case would be `How are Yooooou??, you can get away with a smile and a gesture.
Imagine, however, explaining to inquisitive Bengalis about your country's stand on South Asian politics with a few facial
expressions and wagging of your hand?)
The Irish-South African O Connor was extremely touched by this spontaneous display of concern, and he swore that the affection
he got here was something he had never come across anywhere else in the world.
But that's how they are - this witty, relaxed breed of interesting people that come from Bengal. Rub them the right way, press the
correct buttons, and they will be good sports, best friends and the most gracious hosts you're indeed likely to come across in all of
South Asia.
And buttons, Bengalis have many: big ones and small ones, so you're at liberty to pick and choose. Here are some of the biggest
and brightest:
The talents that Bengalis have managed to produce since, would make football-playing slum dwellers in Rio appear of Ronaldo's
caliber, but that doesn't stop them anticipating the FIFA World Cup like their own team's in danger of making off with the trophy
this year.
Bengalis can be terribly fulfilled, whatever their surroundings, and if they turn up their nose at anything that's deemed
ostentatious or costing over 500 bucks, the apathy is genuine more likely than a mere case of sour grapes.
The phrase "Para Ninda Para Charcha" (Criticism and Debate about Others) enjoys an acronym (PNPC) due possibly to overuse,
and deconstructing the conduct of people, places and things are all an integral component of adda - extended argument sessions
that Bengalis find most constructive.
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