Seene Mein Jalan Aankhon Mein Toofan Sa Kyu Hai Is Sheher Mein Har Shaqs Pareshan Sa Kyu Hai...

THESE LINES KEEP reverberating in my mind and I can barely hear anything, even the cacophony of the autorickshaw I am in. “It’s all good,” I tell myself. “The noise will keep me distracted.” My autowalah talks of the heat; I nod in agreement. It is a hot day indeed. But at this moment, nothing matters. I am supposed to be at the Kotwara Studios by 11am; it is almost time. And I am nowhere close. I tell the autowalah that I have an interview. He wants to know if I am meeting a bada adami. I tell him, yes! I am meeting Muzaffar Ali. His blank look says it all. I ask him if he has seen Umrao Jaan. His face lights up—he has seen the movie and wanted to marry Rekha after it. We both laugh; I tell him I am meeting the man who made the film. My auto halts and we are here. I have managed to reach a little before time. As I enter the studio, pictures of Abida Parveen, Faiz Ahmad Faiz and a painting—Ali’s own creation—greet me. I am informed that “Sir is a little late.” I will have to wait for some time. I sit staring at the brown walls of the studio, thinking about the questions I want to ask, points I may have missed. Suddenly, there is a commotion. “Sir aa gaye hain,” says the man. Muzaffar Ali walks in. He is wearing a loose black shirt and grey cotton pants, his spectacles have been strategically placed on his forehead, his grey shoulder-length hair looks messy. He looks at me and smiles. At 67, he is a very attractive man. He has forgotten about the interview completely. I remind him about it and we move to the second floor, which is his film studio. Posters from Gaman, Umrao Jaan, Anjuman and Aagaman adorn its walls. From a wooden frame, Rekha stares at us; any time now we will hear her sing ‘In aankhon ki masti ke, afsaane hazaaron hain’. Moving away from the talking images, we sit in the second room, which looks like an old library. All his film scripts, storyboards and poetry books of his favourite poets Faiz Ahmad Faiz, Rumi, Shahryar and others are kept here. I have a clear list of questions in front of me yet I remain conflicted. Where do I start? His royal parentage or his films? His love for Sufi music or his paintings? Perhaps we could talk about fashion design? A similar feeling haunts me while writing the story. How do I start? I am not sure yet. I finally decide to tell his story the way a movie maker’s story should be told.

Opening Sequence...Lights...Camera... Action

SOME FORTY YEARS ago, in the green hinterlands of Uttar Pradesh, a young man of 20 sat discussing Faiz and Rumi with his friend on a high cliff—perhaps discussing these very lines. The man, a geology student who took up the subject because he thought, “No matter what, people will always use petrol,” was Muzaffar Ali. Ali is in splits while narrating tales of his naiveté. From that UP cliff to Mumbai studios, the journey has been serendipitous. After graduation, Ali went job hunting and landed up in a Kolkata advertising firm. “Early on, I realised that I was not cut out for advertising; I couldn’t work under anyone forever.” Yet he is grateful that he took up the offer. Because it gave him the chance to meet filmmakers like Satyajit Ray and Ritwik Ghatak. “I used to have long discussions with Ray. We often talked about movie-making for hours,” he tells me. And there are other points of connection; Ali, like Ray, also prefers to do his own sketches while storyboarding. “Ray used to sketch frames because it gave him clarity of thought,” he informs. An artist himself, Ali has drawn every frame of his movies. While talking about how he came to sketch sequences of Gaman (his first film) he tells me that his storyboards (well, most of them) are lying around that very room. As he talks about long-shots and mid-shots, I am lost in an image of Ali sitting on a comfortable rocking chair with his sketch book and pencil. When I am back, I find myself staring at an empty chair. I turn around to see Ali wiping the dust off some old books. Those are the storyboards of Umrao Jaan and Gaman. He hands them to me; the weight of modern cinematic history rests on my lap. But I can not flip through its pages right now. A lot needs to be asked before that, and I am running out of time.

Bombay Talkies - The Continuity Sketches

IT IS A BUSY Bombay morning. A car halts near the traffic signal, its glasses roll down; two men sitting inside the car are deep in conversation. The street beggar knocks at the window, recognises the face and shouts his name. “Amitabh Bachchan!” he says. The signal turns green and the car speeds ahead, leaving an overwhelmed spectator behind. Aeons back, a job with Air India brought Ali to the city of dreams. He was allegedly living a “life of poverty”, where his “house rent was almost as much as the salary” and where he had to sell his father’s “vintage car in order to make a living”. In those days of struggle Amitabh Bachchan used to give Ali a lift to his workplace. It was also the time when Ali was contemplating the idea of making Gaman. He told Bachchan about his plan and asked him if he would be interested in hearing out the script. And he expressed a desire to work with him. “He kept on giving me vague answers and after some good three months, he came up to me and said,’ I can’t work in your film. My image of an action hero (read Angry Young Man) might get ruined if I do this character’,” says Ali. Bachchan perhaps missed an opportunity to work with one of the finest directors of our time, but as they say, one man’s loss is another man’s gain. When Bachchan refused, Ali approached Farooq Sheikh, who later became the protagonist of every film that he made. If Bachchan was the quintessential hero who could sing songs, woo the girl, beat the villains and save the lives of hundreds in one go, Sheikh was the charming guy-next-door; his dilemmas were often existential, he looked real and believable on screen. Perhaps this was the reason why Ali chose to cast Sheikh in Gaman. “He had the vulnerability which was much needed in my films. He didn’t just look the character in front of the camera, he became the character,” says Ali. After the critical success of Gaman, he started working on his masterpiece Umrao Jaan which was based on Mirza Hadi Ruswa’s novel Umrao Jaan Ada. The film had a poetic value to it, and a lyrical flow which appealed to the audio-visual senses. That is why it is considered to be the most aesthetically pleasing film ever made. It is an Indian classic to say the least, and a piece of cinematic genius. Rekha, who played a Lucknow courtesan in the Mughal Era, was grace and elegance personified. And the music was enchanting, layered and haunting. This film won Rekha, and music director Khayyam, their first and only National Awards. It is needless to say that the film is still universally lauded. I am itching to know what he feels about the recent attempt at remaking the classic. In answer, he laughs. Naturally, he has been asked this question before “but it never gets old,” he says. I wait patiently, while he seeks the right words. “Why remake a classic anyway?” is his first response. “They couldn’t recreate the magic of Umrao Jaan. They couldn’t understand the essence of the film, its poetry was lost in the new version; Aishwarya couldn’t carry the film on her shoulders the way Rekha did,” he adds. His disappointment doesn’t end there; it is not just the fact that someone made a “version” of his film. He talks candidly about the current spate of films and expresses his disdain for most of them. “In the 80s, cinema had a social connect with its immediate surroundings. That connect is missing today”. Films like Peepli Live, which he considers to be a bold attempt, do not appeal to him as a viewer. “I can’t see myself in any of the characters. I just can’t relate to them”. Though he is all praise for some of the younger directors like Anurag Kashyap, he doesn’t necessarily like the themes of his films, but he does “enjoy the way they are made.” But he is all praises for one peculiar man called ‘Tiggu’. “Tiggu is doing some great work,” he says. At my puzzled look, he informs me: “I was talking about Tigmanshu Dhulia. He is a friend of Shaad (his son Shaad Ali) and keeps visiting us often; I think he is doing a tremendous job.” Shaad is Muzaffar Ali’s son from his previous marriage with Subhashini Ali. Having made commercially successful films like Saathiya and Bunty aur Bubbly, the junior Ali has earned quite a name for himself. But Ali is very modest while doling out praise for his son and the films he has made. “I think he has a great understanding of commercial cinema, and I would never burden him with my ideology. He is a person with different sensibilities and is doing well for himself” says the father. He adds later, “But his best is yet to come.” Ali has been working on a film called Zooni since the late 80s. Based on the life of the 16th century Kashmiri poetess Habba Khatun, Zooni was supposed to be released in the early 90s, yet is still stuck in the pre-production stage. “I started shooting for Zooni on January 5, 1989; I can remember the exact date.” His face looks poignant and grim while he talks about this film. He wanted to make the film divided into four seasons of the poetess’ life. “It was something that producers couldn’t understand and so the movie kept getting stuck,” he sighs. I ask him if he still plans on making this film and he says he does. But he doesn’t know when.

Flashback-Life in Technicolour

ON A HARSH winter morning, a group of women have assembled in the sangeet ghar (music room). Singing paeans in the lord’s praise, the women are too immersed to notice a lad of eight who has sneaked in, and is listening to them with rapt attention. Ali’s first brush with Sufi music was through zanana sangeet. His mother and her friends would gather at one place and sing to their hearts’ content. And there, little Ali would hear them sing and be moved. It was this early exposure to music that helped him develop an astounding audiovisual sense. There is music and poetry in every corner of that chaotic and comfortable room where he is sitting. A lot of Ali’s artwork—paintings and photographs—grace the walls of this room. Beyond the ornamental value, these paintings don’t just embellish; they bear witness to an artist’s love for his craft. These are paintings made by Ali which were not up for sale. There is a picture of a Rolls Royce in monochrome, the very same one he sold to survive in expensive Mumbai. As is with any artist, his affair with his brush and pencil is ethereal. One can also spot a heavy influence of Sufism in his life—whether we look at his movies, music or paintings. Ali talks about Sufism with an infective zeal. It is Sufism’s closeness to human predicament that attracts him to it. He informs me that through his films he has tried to understand the dilemmas of the human mind, especially women. Perhaps that is why his films have always had strong female protagonists. “Such is the nature of Sufi music that the pangs and conflicting emotions of a woman are sung and expressed by a man,” he says hinting at a wonderful union of the two genders in a single strain. It is this love that compels him to talk about Faiz Ahmad Faiz—who was also an inspiration behind his first movie—again and again. While talking about the layers of poetry that Gaman had, he starts fiddling with his phone. He is looking for something; he finds it, he passes the phone. It is a message from Faiz himself; a message he sent Ali after seeing Gaman. Though he waits patiently for me to finish reading the note, his eyes give him away; they have the glint of a child who has just met his hero. But if his life could be written in couplets, it would be written by Shahryar. The great poet wrote all the lyrics of Ali’s films. Shahryar and Ali shared a deep bond; the duo were friends since their Aligharh Muslim University days. “Shahryar often complained that before meeting me he used to be a man (think like one), but since he has met me he has turned into a woman,” he breaks into a smile that reaches his eyes.

Behind the Scenes

TODAY, MUZAFFAR ALI spends his time flitting between Lucknow and Delhi. He is yet to cut the umbilical cord that ties him to his hometown. The mention of Lucknow brings back memories of a childhood spent gallivanting in the dusty lanes of the ancestral village. Ali was born into the Royal Muslim Rajput Family of Kotwara. His father, the Raja of Kotwara was also a member of the Communist Party of Scotland and for him “being a raja meant working for the benefit of people and not ruling them.” When Ali admits of harbouring Leftist sympathies, you realise it is a legacy that he has inherited from his father, who returned to his country right when it was days away from Independence. It was a time when the ‘royals of India’ were living in the shadow of a glorious past. “What I saw was a skeleton of something spectacular” says Ali. But his father remained unfazed by the days long past. Instead, he marched right ahead and started a party for the local farmers, Haljutta Party that fought for their rights. The birth of the party couldn’t have been better timed. It was almost as if Ali’s father had foreseen the eventual exploitation of farmers that became a reality in freshly Independent India. Like father, Ali too believes in working for the welfare of the people. Today, he is trying to generate employment for the people in his hometown and reviving the ‘local culture and tradition of the City of Nawabs’. He talks about his current project Jhadi se Saree with great fervour. It is a project involving nine yards of silk where his and his teams’ involvement starts right at the beginning; from the time a tree is planted, to the breeding of the silk worms. It is a peculiar project, but Ali is nothing if not unconventional. “My motive was to provide as much scope for employment as possible. It was imperative that we had all the stages of production happening right here so as to include as many people as possible in the project and maintain a strict eye on the quality,” he says. His studio in Delhi—named after his ancestral village, Kotwara—doubles up as his film, music and design studio. He takes care of it along with his wife Meera Ali. Here he teaches his craft to aspiring young designers. His customers are well-known faces such as the talented Irrfan Khan and fashionista Sonam Kapoor. In a bid to keep the traditional weaves and textiles alive, he focuses his attention on creating high-end Indian attires. Ali appears to be displeased about the increasing ‘western’ influence on society. And this displeasure isn’t limited to clothes. “The fact that you and I are having a conversation in English rather than Hindi is proof of how much we like everything foreign,” he says. By now the clock hands tell me that I have gone beyond the designated hour that I had for the interview. It is time to leave. As I gather my things, Ali gets up and takes out a thick notebook and hands it over. It is a yellowed, much thumbed booklet. I realise it is the script for Zooni. “This is the 23rd one,” he admits with a rueful smile. He puts it back gently and neatly. On my way back, I ruminate over the day but am interrupted by a song. “Ye kya jageh hai doston, ye kaunsa dayar hai Had-e-nigah tak jaha gubar hi gubar hai” I smile to myself. We steer forward leaving a cloud of dust behind.

Sociologists are increasingly looking at the web world for collective action and information cascade

Tahrir and #Guwahati, #OccupyWall- Street and #Kony2102. Four different continents, one common theme. Of masses rising up against crimes—crimes of governance, gender discrimination, economic and at worst, against humanity. And that each of these movements for justice played out at a social network near you, with millions of armchair activists expressing their digital solidarity by “liking” or retweeting their support. But does “liking” or retweeting messages of solidarity mean that you care? And what is the difference between liking a status update about latest Batman movie and one that condemns the atrocities committed by a corrupt Ugandan leader against children? I mean, it sure looks the same when you’re doing it, doesn’t it? And that’s the criticism “clicktivists” or “slacktivists” tend to get—that they take easy actions in support of a cause, such as signing an online petition, liking a Facebook page or adding a flag or a ribbon to their online avatar, and that’s pretty much where their involvement ends. Or that they lack real commitment, care only about momentary self-satisfaction and polishing up their digital avatars, and don’t really contribute to any meaningful change. The question that it really boils down to is–can a click make a difference in the real world. By itself, and in isolation, probably not, but when combined with thousands and even millions of other clicks, it builds social momentum. This support, even if it is part-time, brings a lot more into the fold than would previously have been possible, even if it is just online. Drawing a line of distinction between online activity and real-world behavior is becoming increasingly less relevant, when for many of us, our online lives are becoming inextricably linked with our offline ones. Look at Guwahati, for instance. The seemingly simple (and for cynics effectively meaningless) act of forwarding messages of support for the harassed teenager took the video viral and made mainstream national news sit up and take notice of what could have remained a stray regional event. The widespread support and ensuing coverage forced the hand of the administration to doggedly pursue and eventually nab the culprits. Did Facebook and Twitter do this all by themselves? Hardly. But experts, such as sociologist Zeynep Tufekci, argues that such events clearly play a crucial role in creating what she terms a “collective action/information cascade” that drive the protests out of the online world and into the “real” one. Or Egypt for that matter. With thousands of people joining and expressing solidarity for Facebook pages focused on the revolution, not only did this create a larger sense of community around such issues, but with Facebook’s real name policies which allow the authorities to track dissidents through these networks, it showed movement leaders that there is a very “real” outpouring of support, one that could help tip things over from simple online communities to real world activism. Ditto for the Occupy Wall Street protests or the support for Anna Hazare— online expressions of political anger channeled into a cause help build a visible momentum, which itself is one of the condition of success. So what’s the bottom line? That just because people are doing something easy on social media doesn’t mean that’s all they are doing. In fact, a study conducted by Georgetown University’s Center for Social Impact Communication in late 2010 and 2011 showed that “slacktivists” (or “social champions” are they are referred to) are twice as likely to volunteer their real world time to causes, whether it is by way of demonstrations, donations or soliciting donations on behalf of their cause, and often do so in a manner that has the highest potential to influence others. And what if you’re looking for good folks to advance your cause online? Katya Andresen, Chief Strategy Officer for Network for Good, a leading donation platform for cause support has some recommendations. She suggests that folks fronting the digital front for a movement should understand slacktivists rather than stereotype them—just because they are willing to quickly click on a link to show their support doesn’t mean they aren’t willing to do more for the cause (or already doing so, for that matter). And just like the rest of us, slacktivists show stronger support for some causes closer to them than others, and it is only by strong engagement that you can ascertain their level of interest. Net, do not slack off when it comes to engaging with slacktivists— they may be far more enthusiastic and interested than you think. The only word of caution—keep a check on expectations. For many folks, a simple message such as “If you care enough to show this visible sign of support and donate a meager amount of money, trust us and we will go and fix this world issue for you” is enough to goad them into action and donate. Instead, one should outline a list of measurable actions that can actually be achieved. Remember, the world isn’t that easy to fix, and all social media has done is flatten the traditional setting for conversations to allow many more unknowns to finally have a voice that can be heard.

Recommended Reading:

Refreshing the Revolution: Social media and Activism (http://bit.ly/DW-SocActivism) and The Best Activism in Social Media (http://bit.ly/DW-BestActivism)

Set up commissions to help unravel the real problems

IN A COUNTRY as large and diverse as India, its democratic culture is tested relentlessly. Things are further complicated by the fact that India is in the throes of a structural transition from its post-colonial Licence-Raj culture to its status as a free market ‘breakout nation’, to use Ruchir Sharma’s phrase. The fact that this transition is being attempted even as the global economic recovery continues to remain listless, basically indicates that the country’s democratic ethos is being challenged to its hilt. Over the past month or so, three seemingly unrelated events have occurred in quick succession which would allow me to punctuate the argument of this essay—how in the middle of a cacophonous, jingoistic and often-manipulative narrative shaping India’s democratic culture, there is an urgent need to create a space for truth and reconciliation, demystification and honesty. Without such a space, one fears that the country may continue to stumble from crisis to crisis. To elucidate my concern, I could talk of three events: the first occurred between June 28 and June 29 when an armed encounter took place in Bastar between a group of ‘Naxalites’ and CRPF officers leading to 18 deaths. Early reports stated that the deceased were all Maoist insurgents. As the story unfolded, it came to the fore that the dead may have included civilians some of them barely teenagers. In the weeks that followed, the previously hailed ‘successful counter-insurgency operation’, led by the CRPF in collaboration with the state government, turned into a target of condemnation. To compound matters, a committee report by the Chhattisgarh Congress Committee also alleged that the ‘rebels’ shot did include villagers. In their defence, top CRPF officers went on to describe how murky things really were on the ground. Without in any way discounting the difficulties of policing Left-wing extremism, especially of the sort which has been growing in the triumvirate states of Orissa, Chhattisgarh and Jharkhand, events like the one mentioned raise uncomfortable questions about the degree to which our country’s internal security apparatus is in touch with the local realities they are trying to improve. Given the long and difficult history of the Indian government’s relationship with tribal lands—as designated within the framework of the Constitution’s Scheduled Lists—events like these are likely to exacerbate the trust deficit between the state and citizens in these areas. The second event occurred on July 7, 2012, when RTI activist Ramesh Agrawal (56) was shot by unknown assailants in Chhattisgarh. Over the past few years, Agrawal has been in the news because of his attempts to uncover the processes associated with the grant of land for coalmining projects in northern Chhattisgarh and earlier land grants for the iron and steel industries. Within days of the attack on Agrawal, two other green activists—Akhil Gogoi (Assam) and Bharat Jhunjhunwala (Uttarakhand)—also using the RTI to raise questions about environmental exploitation, were also targeted. These attacks are worrying for at least two reasons. First, they reveal the growing intolerance in quarters towards citizens’ political engagement as a First Principle Right granted to them by the state. Second of all, they create an impression that those who actively participate in the democratic space described as the civil society can come under attack when they threaten the powerful. The third event relates to the ongoing dispute over the grant of land to POSCO, the third-largest producer of steel in the world. POSCO has been trying to set up its operations in Orissa for years now. This initiative has a checkered past and it continues to insinuate itself into the lives of Orissa’s rural communities. The initiative has resurfaced because the Posco Pratirodh Sangram Samiti— leading the anti-POSCO agitation has—organised a rally at Gobindpur, Orissa, to reiterate its opposition to land acquisition for the mega steel project. Not surprisingly, a number of petitions are also circulating in cyberspace, strengthening PPSS’ mobilisation on the ground. Such mobilisations should not be viewed as passing gestures. They are signs of a growing restlessness among groups, who find themselves struggling to get their voices heard in the legitimate forums of India. They are also symptomatic of a sense of hurt and resentment among those who, despite the land laws such as Panchayat (Extension to Scheduled Areas) Act (PESA) and Forests Rights Act (FRA), feel bulldozed by imperatives of India’s growth story. These three randomly selected events (one can identify more) help punctuate the growing strain on the country’s democratic polity which to a large extent is a result of growing (class, ideological and cultural) rifts within the civil society. Each constituency chooses to see things from its partial vantage point with little empathy for the other. For all intents and purposes, the Indian government continues to treat Naxalism purely as a law-and-order problem, and not a political one—even as tribal groups resent attacks on their lands as an assault on indigenous livelihoods and culture. RTI activists are perceived as a rag-tag bunch of troublemakers. Those opposing big industries, such as the Gobindpur community, are described as antigrowth and by extension anti-India; leading them to question the motives of private capital and state. In the middle of these divergent viewpoints, facts often slip through cracks. In these circumstances, what is the way forward from the perceived sense of injustice felt on all sides? The answer lies in truth. Any attempt at reconciliation and justice must be preceded by a commitment to the truthful demystification of past wrongs as experienced and narrated by the principle actors. This must be done in ways that are, and are perceived as, legitimate by all parties. An instrument that has had some success in this regard is the truth commission, like those set up in countries since the 1970s. Like any instrument, the commission’s success is contingent on intentions of those using it. Indeed, the success of the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission, established in 1995 after the abolition of Apartheid, came on the heels of 20 truth commissions that preceded it. History shows us that such processes are never easy. And South Africa is not India. While by no means perfect, such initiatives are critical building blocks in pursuit of justice and democratic goals. Quite simply, preserving democratic values requires work and a spirit of humility. With sense of betrayal and resentment growing among so many constituencies in India, initiatives such as this need to be pursued with a sense of urgency. Honestly, there is no moment to lose.

V. Sanjay Kumar on his serendipitous tryst with the art world and on arts impact on the ordinary

In my growing up years had someone asked me for my opinion on art or the business of art, I would have guffawed and moved on. Today I am an ‘insider’ in this world. Thus how someone like me, who majored in finance and left his city Chennai to set up a finance services outfit business in Mumbai, ended up in this trade, is quite a story. The connection was serendipitous, if I may say so. Just like the protagonist of my novel, I never knew that I would be so enchanted. It all started on my wedding day, when an acquaintance gifted me a Hussain. I was amazed and embarrassed by the magnanimous gesture and had no clue to the piece’s value. To find out, I began visiting art galleries and within my first few visits, I ended up buying a work by Jogen Chowdhury. I did not know who Chowdhury was or what made his (or any other artistes’ art for that matter) so expensive. But I was curious and wished to fathom how the process worked—who decided the prices, how were the pieces sold or what kept the market afloat. Once I started researching, I got hooked. Thus began my wonderful journey with Sakshi Art Gallery. We started the gallery in 1988, at a time when the Indian art scene was not thriving. Our biggest challenge was that it was not a firm that we inherited from our parents. It was something that we were setting up on our own. And as participants we were but amateurs. However, we were sure that this is where we wanted to be—so my business partner Geetha and I rented out a place and started exhibiting art. I have been into the art business for 24 years now. Yet, the curiosity to discover this beautiful world never ceases. My book Artist, Undone is my way of exploring the Indian art scene and its impact upon strangers ignorant of the existence of this parallel universe. I have been blessed by the company of so many artistes. Their lives have caught my fancy and inspired me. I know their side of the story to an extent; and it was these stories from the other side of the fence that I wished to share with the world as well. Also there was a curiosity to delve into the issue of human frailty—to see how someone in his forties, after reaching a stage in life where the way forth is foggy, would react to an irrational decision. Thus my protagonist Harsh Sinha ends up buying a painting which costs as much a BMW on an impulse. This is the premise for my novel—a vulnerable man (Harsh) enters the art world because of an impulsive decision. And it goes on to change his entire life—as art does. I have tried to explore the tremendous possibilities of the art world through my book. I say tried because writing is something I am yet to come to terms with. When I decided to enter the art business, my family reconciled with my decision; after all it was just a ‘business’ at the end of the day. But when I decided to write a book, I think I took them by surprise. Heck, I think I took myself by surprise. I am not someone who holds a degree in literature nor can I call myself well read. I have been a finance guy and am comfortable with numbers. The feeling, the sense of achievement, is still sinking in. I am still in a transitional stage—moving on to the next chapter of my life, hopefully, as a writer. I guess this journey of self-actualisation is a central theme in my book. Almost all my characters have shades of me and experience self-exploratory journies of their own. With Harsh Sinha I share his existential dilemmas, his curiosity for the art world and what it could do to him; with Manoj Tyagi (the Naami Chor) I share experiences of the business world and the challenges it holds for its players. Having said that, there are several recurring, secondary themes in this book. It deals with the dilemmas that individuals face in stages of their lives. Hopefully what the book would manage to do is to de-elitise the Indian art world for the middle-class. We do not promote a culture that takes pride in our visual arts; our energies are focused on performing arts. But, I am hopeful because over the past years the scene has been changing. What gave me my peg was a painting by Natraj Sharma called Fat, F**ked and Forty. The moment I saw the piece, I knew that I had my beginning. Before you judge me as the most 'sorted-out writer', know that I am an indisciplined one. Perhaps because the process is new; I am hopeful that someday (when I have an ‘enviable’ body of work) I will be able to streamline my thoughts in a more organised fashion.

Looking Back

I have never looked too far ahead into the future nor too much into the past—I have gone ‘with the flow’. Though I have tried various things in life and explored varied fields, I have never planned anything. I do not believe in looking back or second guessing my choices.

This year’s General Budget introduced a strange acronym to the Indian economy—GAAR. For those who are raising their eyebrows, it means ‘General Anti Avoidance Rule’ and is aimed at regulating tax structure and controlling avoidance of tax. Tax avoidance seriously undermines the achievements of the public finance objective of collecting revenues in an efficient, equitable and effective manner. GAAR aims to target tax evaders, stopping Indian companies and investors from routing investments through Mauritius or similar tax havens for the sole purpose of avoiding taxes

The immediate context of introducing the GAAR is the Vodafone Essar Supreme Court case and ruling which was in favour of the company. The verdict simply states that the Income Tax authorities in India will not have any jurisdiction over a sale transaction which happened elsewhere (outside India), with neither the buyer nor the seller being an Indian resident. And in the meantime Vodafone Essar, a part of the UK-based Vodafone Group, has been asked to pay an Income Tax of `11,000 crore. Vodafone which is the second-largest telecom operator in India has hailed the judgment. The introduction of GAAR in the General Budget 2012-2013 has raised suspicions and apprehensions in the corporate world. Now there is this belief that a “stricter tax structure” will discourage foreign investments. As a result it will accelerate India’s economic crisis. Critics say that GAAR has created an uncertain and arbitrary environment in India. They also contend that the sweeping powers granted to the “assessing officers” to question transactions done by any company and to label it as “tax avoidance”, provides them an enormous scope of power which can be easily abused. However, the GAAR proponents say that the rule will improve revenue collection and stop the entry of black money into the country. Sensing the opposition and apprehensions of the corporate world, the Centre has deferred the implementation of GAAR for a year. Recently, Prime Minister Dr Manmohan Singh, who also holds the Finance Portfolio, set up a committee to prepare fresh norms on the controversial tax provision to bring 'greater clarity' and prepare a roadmap by September 30, 2012, for its implementation. The four-member committee is to be headed by the Indian Council for Research and International Economic Relations (ICRIER) chief, and taxation expert, Parthasarathi Shome. The committee will submit its report after consulting stakeholders. Democratic World spoke to two experts to gauge both sides of the story. Talking in favour of GAAR is Dr S. Narayan, President of the Centre for Asia Studies, a policy think-tank based in Chennai. And pointing out the problematic bits of the rule is economist Bibek Debroy. Debroy was educated at Delhi School of Economics and Trinity College and began his career as an academician.

DR S. NARAYAN//  The anti-avoidance rule has been brought to strengthen the tax regime and plug loopholes that are being used by investors and corporate houses to avoid taxes. Due to the lack of a proper mechanism to check tax avoidance, black money is being pumped into our country. The Centre wishes to stop this practice and the antiavoidance rule is a way to streamline that investment and push-up revenue generation. We want investments flowing into this country to come through proper channels. I believe that the anti-avoidance rule is cardinal to India and we need it, at least in this stage of the country’s economic growth. This law is not specific to just India, other countries have it as well. Liberalisation does not mean a free run to all kinds of investments. It means allowing the right investment which enables growth and profit through legal channels. If you allow indiscriminate investment without checking its source, there would be trouble. However, people are not ready to put their trust into the rule as yet; so the Prime Minister’s Committee has been appointed to look into it. The committee will monitor the rule’s role and impact on revenue generation and fine-tune it in relation to policies. I realise that people fear that the rule/ law may be manipulated or used against investors. And the committee will look into this aspect. It will ensure that the law stays investor-friendly. I believe that the present Indian income tax rules and regulations are not investor friendly. If GAAR comes into being, then it could become instrumental in inviting potential investors. We need to stop taking the easy route if we really wish to check tax-evasion. Just because investors are opposing it, we should not bring in the GAAR? I am sorry, but I cannot subscribe to such a baseless argument. Why should an honest tax-payer be afraid of the GAAR? Only those who wish to avoid tax, will fear it. Do you think a genuine investor will oppose it? It is a law that is a must for an economy such as ours, as it ensures tax security. Albeit a little modification may be required. But that is where the committee comes in—to ensure that it is in the best interest of everyone. Every businessperson should feel comfortable while investing in India. We are looking forward to inviting more foreign investments into this country. Before we do that we need to decide exactly what kind of investment we want—legal or illegal? GAAR has been suggested keeping in mind the larger interests of our country. And believe it or not, law and investment can go hand-in-hand. In fact, they do coexist peacefully in other economies. Contrary to what many are saying, I do not believe that the law has been introduced post the Vodafone Essar case (which I will point out as a solid example of tax avoidance). It would not be erroneous to assume that the company took advantage of the lack of a clear law on anti-avoidance. After all, the deal was related to an Indian company. Just because the transaction took place outside India does not give a firm the right to avoid tax in India. Off late there has been increasing talks on corruption in this country. GAAR can check the source of black money (which is a related concern) and make dealings and transactions transparent.

BIBEK DEBROY//  I do not believe that any of the concerned parties have anything personal against the General Anti-Avoidance Rule (GAAR). The reason behind all the hullaballoo is because of the way the rule is being pushed by the Centre. Any attempt at the implementation of an important rule should be better thought-out and planned. I believe that the issue needs to be examined within the context of the Direct Tax Code (DTC). DTC already lays down provisions for the anti-avoidance rule. Had GAAR been introduced as a part of the DTC, there would have been less reservations against it. The core problem does not lie in the idea, but in the manner in which it is being pursued. For now, the question bugging every mind is; will this rule prove to be anti-investment? It might, if it is implemented in an arbitrary fashion. It might also lead to an abuse of power. If it is implemented in a systemic fashion—and here I am not talking about any particular ‘case’—then there is always a possibility that it might it work. The rule, as a whole, may appear to be against investment and corporate sectors, but I believe it is rather too early to speculate. We should ideally wait for the Prime Minister’s Committee Report. How far will the committee’s recommendations be acceptable to the corporate or industrial sectors remains to be seen. Does India need something like the GAAR? Yes, but not in the manner that is being suggested. One needs to look at it as the removal of exemptions. Remember the core issue is of ‘tax avoidance/exemption’ which is not the same as tax evasion. Exemption/ avoidance is perfectly legal, while evasion is not. As long as it addresses the issue, the anti-avoidance rule might just work out. What I have been saying often is to treat every case as unique. The Vodafone Essar case was one of its kind. It began in July 2011 when Essar Communications and Essar Com, both wholly-owned subsidiaries of Essar Communications (Mauritius) sold 22 per cent stake in Vodafone Essar to the Vodafone Group; as a part of a larger deal. Vodafone bought out Essar’s 33 per cent stake in Vodafone Essar. Under the pact, Vodafone paid Essar, but withheld an additional `4,426 crore as tax. Both companies had then said they believed there was no tax due on the deal. Both felt it was wiser to deduct and pay withholding tax. And then have Essar Communications and Essar Com claim a refund. The Indian revenue authorities, on their part, claimed that though the deal was inked between two foreign entities via share transfer, the deal should be taxed in India because it involved Indian assets. The income tax department charged Vodafone Plc for not deducting tax at source. Recently, Vodafone won its case against the incometax department in the Supreme Court. Thus, establishing a certain precedence. The court ruling goes against the new antiavoidance rule that is being contemplated. If the GAAR comes into being; will it come in a retrospective manner? Will the Centre levy penalty to the companies for the deeds of the past? The Centre should have stated the basis of all transactions much ahead—I have a problem with the knee-jerk reaction that the policy makers are adopting. Had our policy-makers and administrators been forward thinking they would have acted earlier. Any action taken retrospectively is always problematic—that is why the Vodafone Essar snowballed into a controversy. We seriously need to ask ourselves whether India’s investment climate will go up with such a rule? India’s investment climate has deteriorated because of 50 different reasons and GAAR is one of them. We need rules which are investment friendly, and GAAR cannot be more ill-timed. And the manner in which it is being ushered in is creating suspicions in the minds of the people. GAAR has affected the morale of the investors. I hope the PM’s committee will address this. GAAR is adding to the pessimism prevalent in the country.

Why Congress is to be blamed

AS THE MONSOONS played hard-to-get all of June and early July, a perverse competitiveness was forced upon those living in the NCR—in Delhi, Gurgaon, Noida and Ghaziabad. Did my area suffer longer hours of power cut today or did my colleague’s? Who had the boasting rights? Who among us broke the record? Was it the 12-hour misery in Ghaziabad or the 14-hour marathon in Gurgaon? On her part Chief Minister Sheila Dikshit blamed citizens for their plight. Just days after power tariffs went up by a substantial 26 per cent, she made it pretty plain that power cuts were unavoidable till the monsoons come. What was more, Delhiites would have to make do with less power, should learn to live with fewer units of electricity. “Naturally it is happening on a large scale,” Dikshit said, “People do not have control over power consumption… they use four to five air conditioners. They will have to change their habits.” How many people, families and households in Delhi use “four to airconditioners simultaneously? The number could not be large. The number of families that use one or two air-conditioners—expected in an upper-middle class household comprising parents, grandparents and children—would probably be larger. Of course, there are families that cannot afford anything more than an air-cooler. Yet they too suffer power cuts. The issue is not about the quantum of air-conditioners. Mrs Dikhsit’s prototypical Delhi family switches on. It is the hypocrisy of the political class. When income and taxation figures from Delhi are announced, there is understandable pride among the same authorities, the same government and the same chief minister, that Delhi residents are among the richest people in India. Business tycoons and arms agents live well in Delhi. Mediapersons and NGO activists live well in Delhi—or better than their peers in other cities. Clerks, drivers and domestic staff live well in Delhi—they earn, spend and save more than they would in other cities. This explains why not just the rich with their “four to five” airconditioners— as per the chief minister’s assessment—but even humble folk, including the cook who cycles home from work or the office peon who takes the long bus ride back from the heart of the city to, say, its eastern fringes, can realistically hope for a television, an air-cooler and, with some thrift and enterprise, even a small or second-hand air-conditioner. This aspiration should not be mocked. It is hard-won achievement, recognition of the individual’s labour as well as the prodigious economic opportunities Delhi gives its residents and its migrants. If this prosperity is a badge of honour for the government to wear and show off, does it not also confer obligations on the very same government? If Delhi is becoming more prosperous, should not its government use the incremental revenue it is earning to make allowance for more power sources—rather than just wait for the monsoons, which all of India does every year anyway and has been doing since before Dikshit became chief minister? The issue here is not just about Delhi. The shortage economy, the failure of public utilities to ensure infrastructure upgrade with rising needs and expectations of citizens across the country—particularly in teeming, overcrowded but severely under-equipped cities—represents not ordinary misgovernance but one of the greatest public-service betrayals of our time. While all parties are guilty of this in some form or the other, the brunt must be borne by the Congress, India’s oldest, largest and longest-ruling party, one that has been in power at the Centre since 2004. There are two reasons why the Congress is to blame far more than anybody else. First, there is a larger conceptual problem. A perverted idea of socialism has been allowed to flourish and, frankly speaking, fester in India. It glorifies poverty and scarcity, worships Daridra Narayan iconography and pointedly looks down upon any ambition for the good life even seeking to de-legitimise it. In this framework, to seek electricity and hope for air-conditioners is not only not justifiable but downright evil. Other countries don’t see it like this. From the American Midwest to the interiors of China, there are several locations with summer temperatures as high as those in India. Yet air-conditioned work-places and commuter networks are facilitated here as a matter of course, not some privilege given to the people by a munificent state. This ensures the worker reaches his factory or office comfortably and not dripping in sweat or broiling from the journey. It means he or she starts work at once without waiting to recover from the extremities of the weather. This enhances individual, corporate and social productivity. Such an assumption is not rocket science. It is not as if merely capitalism and open markets recognise the need and utility of electricity and other systems of politico-economic organisation don’t. One of Lenin’s oft-quoted maxims in the early years of the Soviet Union was: “Communism is socialism plus electricity”. In Delhi, the mantra has been tweaked: ‘Crony capitalism is socialism minus electricity’. No wonder Dikshit feels she can get away with blaming her citizens for their power problems. The second reason the Congress should be pointing fingers at itself is specific to the UPA government. Why is power capacity enhancement at a virtual standstill in the country? Why did a particularly cussed environment minister spend two years shutting down not just coal blocks but entire coal-fields, even as associated power plants—with millions invested in them—came up but were rendered silent and sullen? Was there a direct correlation between that environmental exhibitionism and this summer’s power outages? It’s a question that won’t go away.

Ek Titli and its green crusaders are bent on changing the world and making it a healthy place

People say that if there are ‘idiots’ crazy enough to think they can change the world, they probably will. Vaibhav Dugar is one such ‘idiot’ who has set out to change the world through his green revolution—Ek Titli. Through this venture, his team and Dugar are raising environmental concerns and spreading awareness about organic farming which they see as a cure and part of the larger vision of ‘keeping this planet green and sustainable’. Dugar was still in college—finishing his BTech—when the idea of Ek Titli struck him. In those days, it was just an awareness campaign. A group of college kids would roam the streets of Pune talking to people about the environment and distributing seeds and saplings to them. After finishing college in 2007, Dugar moved to Mumbai and took up a job with NDTV Movies as their marketing executive. It was here that he met some, “Inspiring people who were doing some amazing things.” Dugar and his friend Bhavik Kaul (co-founder of Ek Titli who has now moved on) would often discuss environmental issues and talk about the probable solutions. “We were not the ones who would just sit and crib about things,” says Dugar, who along with Bhavik, quit their cushy jobs at NDTV to start the organisation called Ek Titli. It was not a difficult decision to make. “I had to take a call and I did so,” admits Dugar. The idea was simple, and needless to add, effective. Just like home-cooked food is tastier and healthier that the one served in restaurants, home-grown veggies and fruits—not doused in chemical fertilisers— are also tastier and healthier than what you get in the market. There is no denying the fact that over use of fertilisers kills the nutritional value of fruits and vegetables we consume. And this is why Ek Titli has become one of the successful, independent NGOs of India. Its aim is to change the way India—and finally the world—eats. Instead of just talking about the ever rising temperature, bring about a change, plant a tree or a shrub in your home. Whatever little space there is in the house, turn it into a farm, they say. And Ek Titli will help you to do it, for a minimum price which covers the cost of the saplings that they buy. Before starting the organisation, the duo forced respective parents to spend gift money to buy seeds and saplings. Now they are making others do the same and turning terraces, gardens and smaller balconies into farms. Along with this, Ek Titli also organises workshops from time-totime to educate people about the evils of pesticides and teaches them how to start an organic farm. That is not all—the Ek Titli portal is a one stop spot for eco-bloggers. Dugar once met a man who had built a wind mill and was providing electricity to around 100 homes. After meeting him he felt that his story needed to be told. “And why just his, there were many others relentlessly working towards the cause of the environment. For them we got this portal,” informs Dugar. Today, people share or swap stories on the website. Currently Ek Titli has received even greater prominence; once India started to look at organic food as the new sexy. It is happening and healthy, and this seems to work well for Dugar, whose biggest challenge was battling people’s perception when he first started. “I can plant a tree in your garden. I can take care of it. But I can not guarantee that the tomatoes will grow to the size you want them to.” Though he still struggles with perceptions, he also sympathises with his clients’ concerns. “I understand that there is a cost involved but then it is a small price to pay for the sake of the environment and nutrition. It is your money and our labour and you get a better world for free,” he adds. The name, Ek Titli, was inspired by the Chaos Theory or the Butterfly Effect. The organisation is now hoping to create a larger ripple; like a butterfly flaps one wing causing the other to flutter and therefore making it fly. Ek Titli too is trying to take flight. These are crazy people who consider building a “terrace farm to be the biggest achievement,” and are staying afloat by creating “micro-farms and things like that”. Currently, Ek Titli is just confined to Pune. However, through their website they have touched other pockets of the country as well. Currently, they are working on an expansion plan wherein Gujarat is their next bastion. In this quest for the improbable, we hope that there comes a day when you hear a knock on the door and the lone butterfly asks you to join her as she soars.

A mixture that is both good and bad, peppered with a sense of humour

LOPA GHOSH’S debut is an Indian khichdi—it takes generous chunks of fact, mixes it with fiction and fantasy, evokes from the past and merges it with the present, take political engagement along with apathy, solid prose with grammatical suicides and headache-inducing sentences. The problem in Ghosh’s collection lies in its consistency— the language oscillates between pure rococo and Indian Hinglish-Benglish. However, all is not bad in this pish-pash; Ghosh’s strength lies in her occasional humour—acerbic and empathetic at the same time. And in her metaphors. She offers interesting insights into the corporate world; one which she knows closely as she was very much a part of it before moving onto her present stint at the United Nations. Though her characters are sometimes not a direct part of the corporate world, they remain deeply influenced by it. And bosses, power points and off sites make their special appearances. For those intrigued by Ghosh’s choice of the title, the stories are not exclusively about the Bengali community. Though the writer is admittedly one. She has also centred several of her plots around NRI Bengalis. But The Revolt is named thus because Ghosh believes that fisheaters enjoy a ‘momentary sense of happiness’ after eating the meat because of the presence of Omega3 fatty acids in it. Thus, her stories are about fluctuating emotions; desire, longing, loss and manipulation. Revolt is also the story of other fish-eating communities of India and contains mesmerising flights of fantasy along with deceitful forces including a ghost of a dead mother, clueless communists and post modern arrogance. A chairman manipulated by his mother’s ghost; a midrung career woman in love with a Siberian oil digger; a corporate anthropologist in love with a suicide bomber; IT companies growing tea; a radical theatre actor creating boardroom Buddhas; the leader of an impending revolution who can only sing nursery rhymes; the world’s richest man in the middle of witchcraft, rape and idol immersions, Revolt of the Fish Eaters is a strange and motley collection from the business world going through its worst recession period yet. If her plots sometimes let you down, Ghosh’s style makes the collection an enjoyable read. And her intriguing characters are a strength.

Need a life-changing book? Pick something else. Read The Liquid for its irreverence, wit, tone and brutal honesty

“I REMEMBER having some ‘happy pizza’ in Cambodia once and being stoned for a whole day, but I didn’t relive 10 years of my life in a hallucination. Not even close. I just giggled a lot and thought the central pillar at Ankor Vat looked like the chute of a magic beanstalk. But that was easily attributed to what I’d ingested: the product of some magic seeds.—Dave Besseling, author of The Liquid Refuses to Ignite. That was Besseling puzzled— Ankor Vat’s hallucinogenics gave him the ‘giggles’. Varanasi’s innocuous lassi led to a series of slo’-mo’ to super-fast flashbacks, filmishtyle. Of course, there is that small possibility that the flashbacks were induced by what Besseling ate/drank/consumed the evening before. Or, they were the early symptoms of the severe stomach flu which would flatten him later. (Caution; if you are tender-hearted then read the lurid descriptions of his flu symptoms at your own risk.) Those who wonder why there are so many tourists and truth-seekers in all the Indian ‘holy cities’ or in South East Asia—this book will not provide you with any answers. And thank the lord for that. Besseling’s The Lquid Refuses To Ignite was not written to enlighten— neither the inhabitants of the host country nor its guests; those who come to ‘holy places’ to seek answers or hallucinate their way to Nirvana. The Canadian-born, tattoo artistcum- journalist’s first book is a compilation of essays some of which have already been published in Tehelka, Caravan and MW. It would be wise to treat this book as just that—a selfindulgent act of looking back at the trippy days that were. And be thankful that it is being cleverly told. The Liquid is quite evidently a western tourist’s tale—whether he is backpacking across the Far East or in this tropical mess of a country of ours. His currency and its exchange rate gives him a scope to see the world in relative comfort. And let’s face it, when he walks, he walks along a ‘substance route’. His is a road trip fuelled by drugs and sex, which makes for an interesting read. Somewhere along the way there is that bit of epiphenomena thrown in—problem is unless you care enough about Besseling, this book would not do much for you. However the fact that the book is nostalgic is not problematic. Comparing Besseling’s first attempt to the life-changing work of a certain Hunter S Thompson is. The Liquid follows Besseling on his travels from Varanasi to Tokyo, Amsterdam, Prague, Kathmandu, Chiang Mai, Luang Prabang, Paris, Manali and Kashmir before ending in Nepal. Well yes, if you are thinking drug trail, you are not too far from the truth. Unlike Thomspon’s Fear And Loathing (the jacket makes the reference. So let us harp on this a bit more, shall we?), Besseling’s tone lacks solidity. Which is a disappointment because one hopes he would do better. Both Besseling and Late Hunter Thompson share a passion for trippy substances, interesting routes and eccentric companions. However, is it enough? Can we compare a boat to a fish; both move in water. Besseling is a bit too moored—to pragmatism, his past and to the fact that he is white and privileged to be unique. Result; he ends up sounding like a ‘tourist’, that creed he pokes fun at. Of a Varanasi bar he writes; “The beer is bad. The whole scene is bad… Not the kind of place you’d bring a girl on a date.” You would rather avoid bringing a woman in a bar frequented by men raised in a compartmentalised, patriarchal system with strict ideas/definitions of gendered spaces and leisure? Thou art wise, Master Besseling (you wish to say). The Liquid consists of stories of stomach flues, nostalgia, lassi, Tokyo hotels and stray dogs—not necessarily in that order. At the risk of repeating myself, unless the reader is invested enough, the book will not make sense. But if s/he is, The Liquid’s raw, visceral appeal is clear. (Though for the love of Buddha, I cannot pretend to understand Best selling’s agenda-ish jibes at Buddhism.) The author is a hyperactive man. That aspect comes through clearly in his prose. His descriptions especially of Varanasi can make you cringe and laugh at the same time.

He was a self-confessed glutton. Today, Joymalya Banerjee prefers to force others to pig out

A long time ago, in a state by the sea lived a boy who loved to eat. One day, when the boy was five, his mother left him at home and went to the market. Right then his cousin called to say she was coming over—with a friend. It was lunch time. The boy knew his cousin would be famished. And his Ma was not around. Would his cousin and friend go hungry? “My five-year-old self was so fond of eating that I was aghast by the possibility of anyone going hungry. So off I went to the kitchen to cook rice and fish curry like a good, Bengali host. The fish I actually managed. I was sadly mistaken about my expertise in cooking rice. I kept on adding water till the basin was choked. Luckily my mother and cousin arrived at the same time and saved the house from getting flooded,” confesses Chef Joymalya Banerjee, the owner and Chef at Bohemian, a Kolkata restaurant, creating waves in east of India, about his first-time cooking experience. Before we say more about Chef Banerjee, a little note: you could take this Chef out of Bengal but you cannot take Bengal out of him. When they are not eating, people in Bengal pass time planning the next meal. And boy, do they love to talk—mostly about food. A true son of his state, Chef Banerjee, the son of a marine engineer father and a homemaker mother, merrily abandoned every ‘respectable and Bengali’ career possibilities to combine his twin passions; cooking and business. After school, when the good boys were starting their ‘serious’ science and humanities degrees, Banerjee was learning to slice and dice at the Indian Institute of Hotel Management. “Then I went to the Oberoi School of Hotel Management (Delhi) to learn the ropes,” says Chef Banerjee. He completed his degree and started his first venture; a catering-cum-delivery business—the first of its kind in east of India—which was an instant hit. “It has been 10 years that I closed that venture. But, I still get calls asking me whether I still deliver,” he says. The Chef in him might have been ready for the catering venture, but the businessman was far from it. After it flopped, Chef Banerjee decided that he would have to re-learn and re-think and joined Oh! Calcutta, a standalone eatery being run by the Anjan Chatterjee-led Speciality Restaurants. “I was never afraid to experiment. Ever since I can remember I have been cooking,” he adds. So experiment he did— with him as its captain Oh! Calcutta spread across Kolkata, Delhi, Mumbai, Bengaluru and Pune. And he became the mainstay of the restaurant chain. It was there that Banerjee made a name as an artist who loved to play with palates. He finally quit it to pursue his dream of doing something on his own, thus Bohemian. In Bohemian, Chef Banerjee has continued his habit of playing with palates and customers’ minds. Sample this; mutton with baby onions, green mango and cheese served with rice. Pan-baked fish with aam ada (a type of tangy, sweet ginger) sauce. How about prawn with muddled grapes, chillies and coconut; or sorshe (mustard) and coconut souffle. And a Hilsa baked in a crust of boris (lentil dumplings that are dried and then crisp fried)—if it is not fusing flavours then what is? Who mixes chhana (a grainier version of cottage cheese, not as fine as paneer) with paanch phoron (Bengal five spices) to create a souffle? Well, Banerjee does. However, beware; this chef does not like his food to be called ‘fusion’. “There is a reason for it. Like music, to even pretend that you can fuse two separate forms, one has to have an expert. I cannot pretend that I know Bengali or western cooking methods so well that I will manage to creatively splice both and create something novel,” he says. Like all great artists, Banerjee trusts his ingredients and gets to know them thoroughly before he experiments. “I believe that a cook has to research a lot. I have this personal obsession with jaggery. It is no less complicated than wine. Then there is the paanch phoron (five spices) that no Bengali kitchen is complete without. And I love gandharaj (an off-shoot of Kaffir and wild lime).” He loves the lime so much that he has created a gentle, refreshing drink with it and he continues to mix it in most dishes. And Chef Banerjee loves to experiment with the Anglo-Indian cusine. “There was once a sahib who ordered his bawarchi to make a quick dal. The cook did so with three types of lentils, ghee and ginger. But the concoction turned out to be too hot. The cook went back and added the first thing he spotted, apples,” he says about a peculiar dish called dal churchuri. Banerjee admires the cook for his novelty. Though he seems chatty enough, the evolution of food, flavours, taste and local produce gets Banerjee really talking. “Bengal cuisine carries the influence of British, Dutch, French and Arabic tastes. It is evolved enough, but it needs to experiment just a little to meet the new demands.” Chefs like Banerjee are thus trying to give a twist to the bhadralok’s tale with the elders’ blessings. “I always ask senior customers for their inputs. I know the younger people are more open to experimentation. I need to know whether the senior lot—bit more strict about their shukto and shaak (saag)—approve,” he chuckles. Considering that Bohemian has been one of the few restaurants from the east of India which has received a four out of five stars in almost every rating site—he must be doing something right. As one ecstatic fan summed it up, “This kind of food not only comes out of hard work and experience, but also love and respect for each ingredient.”