Coming to the Party

When Rahul Dravid was the First Bearer of the national colours, he thoroughly over-used a phrase during the two minute post-match performance analysis that captains were obliged to parrot at presentation ceremonies: "everybody came to the party". Never mind the West Indian and South African sun or the English rain, Dravid's Indian team apparently always had a rollicking time. Fairly soon, just seeing him mumble his way through the initial "Yeah, it was great" was cue for a sudden urge to smack the man on the mouth, keeping the inevit. phrase from escaping yet again. A Bengali hears enough about parties all day without the cricket captain adding his two bits.

There's a certain yearning and aversion attached to the word "party" in my state, referring of course to the political sort. I dare say the situation is similar in other states of the country as well, but lacking (so far, anyway) the diversion of religion- and caste-politics, West Bengal pours heart and soul into the purer sort of politics, whereby only the police records and corruption charges of politicians count. Given this, one's ability to get a job, promotions, one's children into schools, ration cards, passports, encashable 'respect', free lunches, unmarked banknotes, and the very right to exist depends on one's 'party' connections. Especially when one steps out of the urban elite circle. It's a fact of life so deeply entrenched, that every time I meet incompetent members of the public workforce, I automatically file the person away as lucky sod who "knows party people". And this is not knowledge that brings much sweetness and light, of course, particularly to those devoid of such connections. There are certainly people who stridently declare they do not want to live on the party's scraps, but I'm not entirely sure there isn't an element of sour grapes in there somewhere. I, for one, have always existed outside the privileged network, and consequently had to sweat and smile and grease fists and rage and almost punch my way through getting a passport. It took me eight months. And that's just one example.

Which is why yesterday was a first. For the first time in my life, the party smiled on me. I was on a government bus, raining muttered curses on the sour conductor who had rudely refused to give me change for a hundred. I was tempted to choose a new target when the bus slowed to almost a standstill, and then began the torturous crawl past a street meeting of the local branch of the CPI(M). The balding speaker in dhuti-panjabi shook his fist and raged at Mamata Bannerjee as traffic and people flowed around the small island of floodlit red and white, honking, puffing black smoke, weighed down by crackling plastic bags of puja shopping, swarming the local phuchkawala and eggroll stand, dipping in and out of the ATM right behind the temporary podium. Conductors screaming out their routes to potential passengers nearly drowned the speakers furiously self-righteous voice. Taxis cruised along the footpaths, looking for passengers. Rickshawpullers within the range of the hot floodlights fanned themselves with pieces of cloth. More than one person loudly voiced his or her scorn. A cyclist even threw a ball of paper at a framed picture of the late Subhash Chakraborty on the podium. But speaker doggedly went on with his speech. In fact, he appeared entirely oblivious of anything but his tiny audience of barely fifty, who occupied wooden chairs and seemed equally enraptured in him.

And it was so familiar, so very frustrating, so very nostalgic, so very not shopping malls and plastic cafés and Sector V glass-and-chrome, so very Calcutta. Whipping out my camera, I took a quick pic of the meeting, just as our dawdling light abruptly changed colour, and we lumbered past the island of 'party people'. Ever since I have developed a politicial consciousness and especially in the recent months, I have come to hold the state CPI(M) in deepest contempt, but as we crossed at the determined speaker--who, up close, was sweating profusely and had a slightly haunted look--I raised my fist slightly and quietly said, "Laal selam, comrade".

Suddenly, the conductor was beside me. "Din takata", he said gruffly. Give me the damned note. I handed it over, startled. The man soundlessly counted out ten ten rupee notes and thrust the bunch at me. "Ticket kaatben na?" I asked, even more taken aback. Won't you deduct my fare? "Ticket lagbe na" he muttered just as guffly before heading up the aisle between seats. You don't have to pay. That was when I noticed a small newspaper cut-out of Subhash Chakraborty pasted on his battered coin-bag. "Thank you, comrade," I mumbled at his sweaty brown uniformed back, recalling earlier curses. I suppose some of us are still in it for a penny's worth of ideology, after all.