Of extraneous existence in nostalgia

Of extraneous existence in nostalgia

Biplab Pal

My spirit I to Love compose,
In humble trust mine eye-lids close,
With reverential resignation,
No wish conceived, no thought exprest,
Only a sense of supplication ;
A sense o'er all my soul imprest
That I am weak, yet not unblest,
Since in me, round me, every where
Eternal Strength and Wisdom are.

The Pains of Sleep: Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The very basic fact that we continue to breadth and insufflate every new morning in the most humdrum job one could imagine, transcends into reality of living-survival, struggle and ennoblement of existence through fracas for position, wealth and recognition-you name it. Yes, we are not among the seven hundred millions of Indians who strain to manage 2100 calories a day. And not among the billions whose human existence depletes every day against all kinds of pollutions-environmental, ethical and moral.

Didn’t I tell you, we, the immigrants who have managed to escape, have excelled in the art of living? We escape to excel and excel to escape.

Hei! Don’t talk rot euphemism of nationalism! Of patriotic feeling and tickling of idealism which rarefied into global ecumenical cosmopolitan culture long times back. We live in an era of internet. An era of no fence, no border. Esites are our real asylum, erommance is our real crash and efriends are our real chums. Does not matter that I don’t know the name of my neighbors-it does matter that hundreds of people are reading my blogs, my scraps. I have tons of friends in chat line from Brazil to Russia. And of course they are all gals- more real than the next door girl in my town whom I could never blab the teen ecstasy of a tattooed heart. But I know these gals are real with 34C-they told me.

So what? Who am I? A dude, dad, husband, son, friend, fiancé, Bengali, Indian, American, Engineer and so many fragmented combo of existence packed in a bin- a marketable case tagged with the brand NRB, NRI, Indian techi. In a shiny day, I am American to Americans, Indian to Indians and Bangali to Bengalis. Otherwise, I am a rat worshiping, masala stinging Indian to American who has stolen their otherwise reassured job. Deshi to Indians who according to him, responsible for poor image of Indians in America because I don’t have etiquette enough to be American. And a snob, Greek, cryptic character to most of the Bangladeshi and Bengalis other than the Bangladeshi shop owners. Shiny or gloom is just other side of whether I have market relation with my annotator. Antic stock of market economy in social relation-yes, that’s real me, the ‘I’.

Does nostalgia mean anything to a stock? I am only rated by my market value in real and option market. People around me would buy in or out depending on stock’s prospect in a jittery market. No body has damn time for me, unless I have fungible worth for their investment. No truth is more real than this nasty Bazzari reality.

So how does it matter if I am missing a group theater in Calcutta, riverine terrain of Ganges delta, surreal look of rupasi Bangla and a street corner adda with my soul mates at the day end and weekend? Am I not earning enough dollars for a compensation of homesickness? A cold turkey of what one can easily say not so valuable in our professional life! Compensation is a wrong word in market economics. Actually I am being paid the worth it takes to replace me. That does not count for anything-not even my skill sets other than its availability and vicarial in the naukri bazzar. Yes, I am worse than the hookers, the B-gals. Even they get the worth for their beautiful boobs and bums, almond eyes and ruby cheeks. I don’t. I get the value for hardship in replacing me! I have never been rewarded for my knowledge, skills and diligence. I have always been compensated because they couldn’t find another stock like ‘me’ at the same price.

But it does not matter anymore. I am into eternal biological cycle. I am a dad now and someday, I will be grandpa. My Y gene will survive and that is all that matters. Like colorful falling leafs in autumn, my biological existence would wither away. Pretty much the same way a cow or a pig subsists its life cycle.

Could we ever be better than a biological being?

Better than a snap shot in evolution Scheme?

"How often already you've had to be told,

Keep cold, young orchard. Good-bye and keep cold.

Dread fifty above more than fifty below."

I have to be gone for a season or so.

Good bye, and keep cold: Robert Frost

California 11/15/06