Of Mr Bachchan's Blog

Thanks to the constant references in the media I was drawn to the blog of the supposedly erudite and articulate patriarch of Bollywood Shri Amitabh Bachchan. After reading his outpourings over the last two days I am gob smacked to say the least! Now either Mr Bachchan has left the task to a linguistically challenged mass murderer of the English language or Mr Bachchan’s vast repertoire doesn’t quite include, ahem, language skills! So what – he’s still a great star and a wonderful human being – right! Curiously for such a messiah, there’s a marked lack of sensitivity towards how the bulk of humanity lives. The latest in his daily deluge exhibits shades of "If they can't have cake, they must be diabetic", imperiousness. Shahenshah indeed!

But for all English language teachers across the globe, putting their young wards of classes 5 or 6 through the paces of rudimentary grammar, this is a readymade test paper. Start reading. The italics are my humble contribution:

From the blog of Shri Bachchan (http://bigb.bigadda.com/)

DAY 392

Posted on: May 20, 2009 - 12:17 am Prateeksha, Mumbai                                         

There is a sense of completion today. I have visited my father again through the day, and found myself groping for words and expressions to describe him well enough for the foreword that I struggle with for Madhushala. ….

 …………So difficult to do justice to  parents, their selfless love and unconditional care………….

I feel so dwarfed in their presence and now in their legacy that they have bestowed on me. Without ever wanting or asking for something, how did they manage to bring us up, within limited means. How did they cope with economic constraints (Another recession triggered within the Bachchan family???). What did they convey to the world (What pomposity I say) when they were unable to afford the numerous demands of their children. When was it that we realized that we could not match the affluence of our other classmates. What did go through our minds when we had to sit back, to reckon that our material position was different. I cried in despair when in school, because my Mother could not afford to give me  Rs 2/-, yes two rupees, to become a member of the class cricket club. Why were we cycling it to our friends birthday party, where others drove up in chauffeur driven cars. Why wasn’t our drawing room air conditioned like my friends’ (In the 1950s and 1960s which is when I presume Mr Bachchan went to school, how many people in India do you think had air-conditioned drawing rooms?) and why did I possess just one pair of jeans and a pair of loafers for all occasions. I felt embarrassed to be invited to the Vigyan Bhavan in Delhi when Herbert von Karanjan was conducting the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, because I had just my one driven to smithereens pair of orange loafers and a black trouser that was never sent to be dry cleaned because it was an excessive expense. (Presumably washing them wasn’t good enough!)

How did we feel in University when we could not get our bottle of Coca Cola, because it cost 4 annas - 25 paise ! (Oh cruel fate – no coke for young thirsty Amit!) Or those delicious pieces of sautéed cucumber that used to come by in little hand carts outside the college gates.

Years later, when we got established in life and were in a capacity to buy crates of Coco (a new brand?) Cola, to drive in the luxury of the latest output, to walk into a popular restaurant without self consciousness (Strange I still feel self conscious in those specialty French restaurants but self consciousness, now that’s another thing), to possess our own home far removed from the 10 by 10, 8 occupants ‘digs’ that we lived in, when in Kolkata, and when we offered grandiosely to our parents the option of asking for whatever they wanted, why did we get no response from them. Why did they not accept anything from us. Why, all they wanted, was that private little moment, when they desired us to sit with them and tell them what transpired all day. That is all….

………………….

My anxiety.. my love.. and  more !!

Amitabh Bachchan

My Note: For more such gems, visit http://bigb.bigadda.com/

Death of a Teacher

News of the death of my old school teacher Hoshang Kapadia who taught me English through classes XI-XII, has come as a shock. Hoshi or Kapadia as he was called was a gentle, genial soul with a peculiar sense of humour which I found quite mystifying then, but seems so civilized and urbane now.

As is our wont when an old companion passes away, I remember him through the fragments of memory that have survived the decades gone by. We were 17, I think, when he got us to debate on the travails of teenagers. In a classful of angst-ridden boys that was a recipe for disaster but he managed to get us to do reasonable soul-searching with his patience and tact.

In between classes on Coleridge and Shakespeare, his great passion was to turn some of us into good public speakers. To that end he would devote enormous time and energy working with us to fine tune our diction, style, delivery and the nous needed for debating. And it worked alright. The A-team of my good friend Sandip Ghose and AP Singh, was considered the crack debating outfit in Calcutta debating circles of the mid 80s. Subroto Talukdar and I were the reservists, a fact which to my great shame I held against our mentor at that point.

In truth he was much too generous and kind a soul to ever have anything but the best interests of his students at heart. I had the great fortune of continuing my English Literature studies in college under his brother Rohinton, a massive influence on a whole generation of students at Xaviers in Calcutta. Both brothers had the unique ability to turn their students into close friends.

In losing Hoshang Kapadia, I feel a sense of great personal loss, like a childhood friend passing away. Ironically I read about his death the same day that my 13-year old daughter went for her first inter-school public speaking competition. In the end she won only an honourable mention. But I know Hoshi Kapadia, teacher of English and mentor of boys at Don Bosco School, Calcutta would have been happy.

Thank you sir.