Murder, exploitation, holocaust, colonialism, terrorism, jehad, brutality, fanaticism, hate....
So many words clouding our lives.
Has God forgotten us?
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
The Most Important Man
The most important man in my life is my father.
It is difficult to describe someone I know so closely and yet have an objective view. In several ways, he is rather a typical Probashi Bengali. Brought up in a government quarters setup in a middle class locality called Gol Market. Studying in a school where all boys from that colony studied. Studying at Delhi University from where he earned his bachelor degree in Physics and then subsequently completing his Masters and his Doctorate.
He is characterised by calm and stubborn nature. If he had his way, he'd wear clothes like a colour blind. A bald head, spectacles perched on his nose, comfortable pair of shoes and serene eyes hide his quirky humour stifled in an otherwise joyless world. He loves sports and jokes but he is pathetic in delivering the latter. From him I have inherited my snub nose, small eyes and my tiny pair of hands through my genes. What has seeped through my skin is his unusual humour, his love for sleeping and a weakness for arguments.
But if there is one word to describe him, it would be that he is a scholar.
'Scholar' in English sounds priggish. Yet, there is no other way to sum him up better.
The 60s and 70s were turbulent times. The wars, the constant shortage of food, the fake encouragements of our politicians, the ever-present babudom and red-tapism. Those were strained times and the youth then was full of issues. Shortage of jobs aggravated the situation further. Delhi University then was a simmering with discontent students, just like those in Calcutta, Kerala and othe parts of our country. They wanted equality and justice and social changes. Opposed to them were the older generation with their own psuedo Gandhism, who viewed the students as decadent. Violence erupted everywhere. At that crucial time, my father began his university studies as a science scholar.
I don't think his aim was to do his Doctorate in the first place. I suppose it was destiny which pulled him towards it.
How he obtained his PhD is a full of determination, back breaking work, discouragement from relatives along with a generous handful of plain good humour and glasses of rum, coffee house tea and packets of cigarettes.
Those grim stories are now retold with funny twists. But when he relates the day when he obtained his degree, even now I can feel a part of the elation he must have felt back then, in the packed auditorium at the University convocation, 1st May, 1980. Mrs Gandhi was the most powerful person in India at that time. Even her powerful presence a few inches from my father failed to impress him as much as that scroll of parchment did. Since that day, he has written 'Dr' before his name, in a clever cursive writing.
Much of what I am today, I owe to him. For that, all I can offer him is my gratitude.
Thanks Baba!
It is difficult to describe someone I know so closely and yet have an objective view. In several ways, he is rather a typical Probashi Bengali. Brought up in a government quarters setup in a middle class locality called Gol Market. Studying in a school where all boys from that colony studied. Studying at Delhi University from where he earned his bachelor degree in Physics and then subsequently completing his Masters and his Doctorate.
He is characterised by calm and stubborn nature. If he had his way, he'd wear clothes like a colour blind. A bald head, spectacles perched on his nose, comfortable pair of shoes and serene eyes hide his quirky humour stifled in an otherwise joyless world. He loves sports and jokes but he is pathetic in delivering the latter. From him I have inherited my snub nose, small eyes and my tiny pair of hands through my genes. What has seeped through my skin is his unusual humour, his love for sleeping and a weakness for arguments.
But if there is one word to describe him, it would be that he is a scholar.
'Scholar' in English sounds priggish. Yet, there is no other way to sum him up better.
The 60s and 70s were turbulent times. The wars, the constant shortage of food, the fake encouragements of our politicians, the ever-present babudom and red-tapism. Those were strained times and the youth then was full of issues. Shortage of jobs aggravated the situation further. Delhi University then was a simmering with discontent students, just like those in Calcutta, Kerala and othe parts of our country. They wanted equality and justice and social changes. Opposed to them were the older generation with their own psuedo Gandhism, who viewed the students as decadent. Violence erupted everywhere. At that crucial time, my father began his university studies as a science scholar.
I don't think his aim was to do his Doctorate in the first place. I suppose it was destiny which pulled him towards it.
How he obtained his PhD is a full of determination, back breaking work, discouragement from relatives along with a generous handful of plain good humour and glasses of rum, coffee house tea and packets of cigarettes.
Those grim stories are now retold with funny twists. But when he relates the day when he obtained his degree, even now I can feel a part of the elation he must have felt back then, in the packed auditorium at the University convocation, 1st May, 1980. Mrs Gandhi was the most powerful person in India at that time. Even her powerful presence a few inches from my father failed to impress him as much as that scroll of parchment did. Since that day, he has written 'Dr' before his name, in a clever cursive writing.
Much of what I am today, I owe to him. For that, all I can offer him is my gratitude.
Thanks Baba!
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