Been thinking about this for some time. Frankly, shit scared. A friend, she told me that Bengalis with cultural biceps are gonna run after me screaming ‘death to heresy!’ And I asked myself, do I want THAT to happen? But what the hell!

So, how much of Tagore do I know? Very little. Grew up in a house where mugging up the Gitanjali was considered a qualifier. You had to make your bones sailing through that book. And once qualified, my mother, sister, a few other uncles, aunts, their off-springs and sundry gallantry award winners would inspect your spoils before strapping you ready for the next war – the British Army has advanced training where they stop training you further, but try to kill you; my family had The Memorizing of The Gitobitan, not just word by word but tune by tune.

Okay, I exaggerate – but that’s close enough, trust me.

What could sure have been an interesting omelette remained the same boring bloody egg, because I gave the start-line a miss and grew up as the proverbial lotus leaf. Sure, subjected to a fat lot of singing poetry or recitation, periodically forcefully made to sit through dance drama and stuffs... even blackmailed to drum up some basic tabla to help the sisterhood sing/dance/enact whatever The Books demanded of them – but my conversion remained a pipedream; I was destined to be a Prophet-less Bong – a crime that could get one ostracized. And ostracized I was, though I can’t say that I regret that.

Now don’t get me wrong; I like the man. He was quite the genius; a visionary, an exemplary philosopher – who created a treasure-trove which enriched the lining of Bengali Literature. If there is anyone who deserves a medal and a gun-salute in this manmade hell-hole called modernity that we have to live in these days – in my list, Tagore would sure be a first row candidate, while I would possibly barr the entry of say, Mr. Gandhi at the parade ground – and that’s the amount of respect that I have for this man.

What quizzes me is Bengali’s inexhaustible Tagore obsession. Sure, there are many things that I don’t get. I am dim, not getting any younger, and Nyapal here keeps spiking my drink with poisonous mushrooms, so. So? So, thought I, what’s the big deal in letting one more slip? But then you, my friend, if you think that this badgered clutter is still worth a spring-clean, I am eager to learn from you.

The junk travels in different direction. And one travels along the inevitable lines of comparison. Vivekananda had some powerful stuff to say about spiritual, personal and social action. Clear directives on leading a healthy, responsible and accountable yet clean life – no shit. The man represented the sum total of Eastern spiritualism in a far, faraway land, hundreds of years ago, and guys there were so damn impressed by just listening to him that their descendants still talk about him even today. That’s a feat no doubt in a nation where your average incident that hits the ground head-first starts decomposing at its crown by the time the tail comes out.

Or Raja Rammohan Roy – the Renaissance Man. Overhauled the collective Bong conscience. Not a mean thing to do! Think about the average bong during those days. 400-500 years of Muslim domination, piss tired of being meted out the second-class citizen treatment, then voila! ...Brits, a new way of life, recognition and favour as the follower of a hassle-free creed among the natives; only Christ the Redeemer – no bayonets.

Result? A new age indulgence compounded with semi-Talibanistic medieval rituals in social life – pigeons, mistresses and imported liquors joined alliance with the rolling dice, wife beatings, lazy-arsed lives, and a couple of scores of rather darkish medieval chores – am sure most of you have read about them since you were kids... and wow! --- The dhoti-banyan clad dudes suddenly jigged big time.

To pull up such a rock-bottom-yet-still-digging social psyche, to inject serious amount of kinetic energy and getting most of the same bai-ji loving Babus to run helter-skelter to bring about an insane amount of social reconstruction, something that was never witnessed before in our history – frankly, I can’t even begin to imagine.

Vidyasagar -- The man who reconstructed our language, the man who reformed Bengali typography, the man who gave women a lease of life (yea, Bong men of the yore and the Talibans – not very distant cousins, I keep saying). What about him? I don’t want to bring in few personal favourites of mine – Sukanta-Satyajit, Kazi Nazrul or BC Roy – for obvious reasons. Point being, there ARE a few Bongs that could on a serious scale, threaten the Tagore Legacy.

This is where I quit the monkey business and get serious – my glass is nearly in need of a refill. So, stop me if I sound uneducated.

Bongs’ obsession with Tagore is because the average Bong is still butt lazy. He doesn’t want to think – that’s such a tough bloody thing to be doing! Besides, why trouble the brain when Tagore’s thought of nearly everything and mapped em down on bundles and rims? Need to pretend omniscience? Self righteousness? Or exhibit intellectuality? Borrow a few lines from Tagore. Piss easy.

The butt lazy Bong excels in taking the easy way out. Can you list ten performers that have spent a lifetime singing/dancing/reciting renditions of Tagore? Album after album, year on year? I bet you can. Some of you can even list twenty. Or a hundred. Ah well, don’t we have so many cultural ambassadors? Going through a tough patch? TRP hit the donkey’s rear? Cut a Tagore album – some suckers’ sure to buy.

Cut a Nazrul Album? Or a semi-classical rendition? Bugger's drunk! - Shoo! Shoo!

Well the political guys surely doesn’t want us to rework/rethink on the ideas that had the Rammohan or BC Roy effect, so at every traffic intersection they have some woman passing through mid-life crisis yelling about how she’d love to drown (thrice) in someone’s open air and stuff (tomar khola haowa-y, ami dubtey raji achhi) – but it colloids my brew bad to gauge the enstupidation that has amounted (and no, Nyapal need not add any mushroom at this point) under the pretence of ‘We Have Culture’ Syndrome. If the sum total of the culture of a clan that’s spread across two nations lies balancing on the shoulders of a solitary man – the load creaks, the man gets a damaged back... but most of all, I’d rather be somewhere safe, far away from the crash site. Bihar – here I come!

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Okay am back after half a day, completely sober (had to throw the last of the mushrooms away. Bad for your brains, I tell you). After reading this, I can realize why people find me confounding; I won't blame you