It has been close to 7 years now since I put all my eggs in
the heritage basket and all too frequently congratulated myself for making that
choice. The complexities of identity shaped by people, places and stories is what
lies at the core of heritage. What this means is that there are innumerable
interesting cross connections and nothing beats getting lost on an unknown road
to emerge out into places very familiar.
Jim Corbett with his British-Irish origins, a lifetime of
adventure in India, his quiet exit from here as soon as the country’s ownership
was restored to the right people and the fervour he continues to inspire among
his fans to date, including in yours truly, offers the opportunity to discuss
all that heritage can entail.
As I set out to Choti Haldwani, the ‘model’ village he set
up near his childhood home of Kaladhungi for his 150th birth anniversary
(27th July 2025), to see the places that shaped him and share space
with innumerable other Corbett-heads on the big occasion, it is fair to say that I
am excited. Very excited. Under a series of posts titled “Lore: Corbett and
Heritage”, I will look at both well-known and not so well-known legacies of this
one-of-a-kind personality who inspires devotion and debate for his undeniable
role in Indian conservation’s story arc.
Perspective is a powerful thing. It can turn the dire into desire and hopelessness into certainty. When heading out to watch a documentary like the Nilgiris in the company of fellow idealists who curse and dream in the same breath, it is not difficult to spot the dissonance. On one hand will be the spectacular footage of wildlife projected onto the magnificence of a full size movie hall, on the other will be the knowledge that even as we watch in the AC-cooled dark confines of a decidedly environmentally harmful supermall, the actual subjects of the film would be that much further on the path to obsolescence through a combination of greed and antipathy. We want to enjoy the sights and sounds of the wild in the comfort of our urban forts but how many of us would be there on the ground when it is required to take a stand against the JCBs?
Of course, there is the faint flickering hope that amongst the thousands who pay their way to this recorded spectacle of nature’s bounty, a handful of these observers may be impelled to do more than that. This tiny minority of a minority will always be in short supply as bringing change requires mad devotion to the cause, otherwise often left at the mercy of important sounding words urging actions that never materialize. Changemakers will always account for only a minuscule proportion of the population, but the pretty on-screen story might just inspire them to take on the bad and confront the ugly truth yet.
I subscribe to two newspapers just so that I can stay off social media trends and focus on meatier issues but as it happens, those very newspapers often report about aforementioned trends. This time though, those trends have a fascinating intersection with history, so couldn't resist writing about it.
The reporter tells me of a trend of not-so-cute dolls by a Hong Kong designer which go by the name Labubu whose designs seem to be now inspired by a 1st millennium BCE Mesopotamian demonic figure Pazuzu. Besides the rather memorable names of both those trends, it is a good reflection of the fact that bored humans over the rather brief history of our species have always liked a good scare. Even as social media algorithms press all sorts of buttons on rage, fear, love and lust, it is good to see social media talk about stuff from a few thousand years ago as opposed to, say, only-a-90s-kid-would-know sort of non-historic nonsensical nostalgia.
I, on the other hand, when I read of Pazuzu's historical role - a defender against demons being the mean demon that he is - I am forced to think of all the painted "Buri Nazar Waalein Teraa Muuh Kaalaa" [Sort of translating to - Envious people, may infamy pursue you] demons I have grown seeing on the backs of trucks in India. Not that I grew up on the highways of India, mind you, but the route to my school required us traverse a stretch of the same for a good decade or so. In houses in Uttarakhand, the same envy-busting demon's face now in clay molded form glares off newly built houses in my neighbourhood. Between the Middle Eastern Pazuzu and the far-eastern Labubu, I guess we should be happy to have our own version of what seems to be a trend that will never go out of fashion.
The premise was interesting, very interesting. A bank-heist caper set in the small towns and urban villages of Bengal in the mould of a genius criminal vs dogged cop drama. The output was fantastic too. Tense camerawork, authentic acting and locale worthy music brought together the story with impact and verve. "Bohurupi", a movie which I watched yesterday without even seeing its trailer or reviews delivered entertainment in spades for Baba and me. Not exactly a Childrens' Day movie though we watched it on the day, it pushed a message that becomes all the more clearer as you grow older, that for capable and sincere 'professionals' pushed into corners by unfair circumstances, the 'moral' choice is not default.Baba's end of movie statement that "Bangla cinema kothai pouchey geyeche... baaki der theke ONEK oporre [Look where Bengali cinema has reached... the others will never be able to catch up]" was the typical unwarranted over-the-top declaration without which Bengaliness remains uncertified. Nonetheless, I would recommend watching it. Worth your time.
But the reason I write this post is that all through the movie, I couldn't stop thinking about what would people on whom the movie is based feel about the same? The memorably portrayed independent pick-pocketeer Jhimli with a sharp tongue and seductive eyes. Would she feel represented through the movie or would she think that 'her' character was a simplified novelty meant for city viewers? The small town 'chor' [thief] guru Salim who is a master at his craft but only in the small world that he inhabits - he is no suave Danny Ocean whom international audiences (claim to) admire and (aspire to) relate to, chor or not. Would he judge the directors Shiboprasad Mukherjee and Nandita Roy for projecting expertise on themes they don't have it on? The bohurupis [quick-change folk artists who travel in troupes performing in town and village squares which are usually off the 'in' circuit] themselves, skilled in 'overacting' and melodrama of the kind that sells to a less urbane and therefore less cynical audience. Would they feel proud that audiences in Kolkata, and possibly the globe, would now know of them or are they also well aware that their caricaturish passionate performances which form the baseline of the film will not make its urban audience actually attend in person their rapidly fading world of street performances to support or to save it? But then again, through the centuries they have been master shape shifters/spies/survivors and for them success is not dependent on such fickle support driven by Netflix trends and corporate YOLO mantras. For them, a new story arc and a new beginning is one snappy costume change away.
I recently read an article which quoted Rabindranath Tagore's observations during his visit to the temple complex of Angkor Wat in Cambodia. It said that he said that he could see India everywhere but he could not recognize her. Coming from an renowned internationalist like him, it would have been appreciated in the right sense. In today's nationalist times combined with the fact that I am no Tagore, I want to say that about Bangkok but I won't. In the rush to find common ground, we chose to overlook how differences need to exist too. That they put Lord Indra and the heavenly elephant Airavat on their city logo was completely out of Thai reasons. There was no equivalent Indian city example which I could think of which did the same. Despite being a tourist, the symbol was known to me. The thrill of familiarity felt in a connection need not be converted into ownership.
It should look out of place but it does not. Steel and rubber fashioned on an assembly line set in the heart of an humongous iron shed. Fed by the lifeblood of plants and animals lost to the forces of geology millions of year ago. Maybe that's why owners refer to them as steeds or horses or beasts. A pristine mountain stream courses by powered by unfettered nature and gravity, an engine that requires no pistons. If there were a dozen of them, the peace quotient would have taken a nosedive and their riders representative of the callousness of the human being. But one motorcycle in the midst of nature? An equitable balance.
Old is slow. Old is stagnant. Markers of growth are shiny and cold. Air-conditioned spaces fuelling the furnace outside. That doesn't quite matter because if we all make enough money, we can always shift to another planet. Thoughts on the past are productive time lost. New ideas, new visions. Onwards and upwards. Let the rust and the vines find somewhere else to live. Preferably on pages of diaries and in dystopian TV series. While selling dreams of an imaginary perfect past, let's paint over all the real imperfections - those wandering steps that brought us here that could yet give us pause to wonder what exactly is the rush?
