Chapter 2 - The Kobita Protijogita (Elocution contest) - Poila Boishakh 1988 B Block Club house

.
When you're a little kid... You're a little bit of everything. Artist, scientist, athlete, scholar... Sometimes it seems like growing up is the process of giving those things up. One by one. I guess we all have one thing we regret giving up. One thing we really miss. That we gave up because we were too lazy... Or...

we couldn't stick it out. Or because we were plain simple afraid.

 

We had The B Block Cricket Team. Well there was really no name to the team. But what was important was that there wasn't an imaginary team in the world that could beat us. And we romped the little playfield that court yarded the B Block from 4 to 6 every afternoon. Suddenly some mom would yell “It's six-thirty...” And so the IPL championship game of 1988 would come to a grinding halt. In front of 60,000 screaming fans...the league's leading bowler... had to go to his weekly recitation rehearsals.

 

This was something I was volunteered into doing by my Mom. She felt (still wondering how) that I had immaculate elocution capacity. A notion falsely formed because of my practicing Amitabh Bacchan dialogues in the toilet. Fuelled by the eloquence of a certain Projapoti Bandhopadhyay (Real name withheld). He was practically a legend in our neighborhood. He had participated in all recitation ensembles held in Golf Green B Block since Nehru was the Prime Minister. He always practiced...forty-seven-hundred hours a week. He always recited everything perfect. And his mother always bragged about him to everybody else's mother.

 

I hated Projapoti Bandhopadhyay. Uhhhh! If there was one thing I hated... as much as I hated Projapoti Bandhopadhyay... It was recitation of Bengali poetry with a irritating feminine snag in front of the neighborhood who’s who. The one in charge of this was Mrs Chhanda Sen. I liked her. She was a no nonsense woman except her son was a bit of a cuckoo. I tried to reason with her that I'm in 8th Grade now and there are a lot of pressing demands for my time. Well she had a way of convincing me to participate at the Poila Boishakh (Bengali New Year) recitals. She said I had talent and with practice I can be better than Projapoti Bandhopadhyay. That did it. I was in. I gobbled the bait and was a part of the seasonal performance.

 

All of a sudden...as I started to recite in front of her... It was like...there was electricity flowing through my veins. The Tagores and Nazruls and Sukantaos had exorcised me. Suddenly, I could do no wrong. And so, I made my decision. I would sacrifice. Endure humiliation. Deprivation. Grave physical danger. But I would participate in the recital and recite Tagore’s “Beerpurush” as Mrs. Sen had never heard it before. Like the world had never heard it before. Like Projapoti Bandhopadhyay had never heard it before. In due time it was the dress-rehearsals. And I was ready. Leave it to Projapoti Bandhopadhyay to actually get dressed up for a dress-rehearsal. And then it happened.

 

Mrs. Sen announced that Projapoti Bandhopadhyay would also be reciting Tagore’s Beerpurush. Now, I'd never actually been hit by a ton of bricks but -How could she do this? She must have known. But wait a minute. What was it Mrs. Sen had said? This wasn't about competition. It wasn't about who's better, or who's worse. It was about poetry. And anyway, maybe Projapoti would screw up. Maybe he'd screw up royally. Well with such prayers droning in my 13 year mind Projapoti started. Maybe the phone would ring. Maybe a fire-alarm would go off somewhere. Maybe someone would drop a ten-megaton bomb on the roof. China had 'em now, didn't they? OK - sure, it sounds perfect now. But how long could he keep this up? But he was not making mistakes. God, you know I don't ask for much. OK, God, OK. I'll never swear. I'll give my allowance to the needy... And I won't use that snotty tone of voice with my mother, OK? OK? Just one..one...lousy...mistake. This was a disaster. Projapoti had recited his piece - my piece...perfectly. And then she called me on to deliver my piece. Now?! Back-to-back? What was she trying to do to me? Suddenly...as I started to recite, I thought...maybe I could do it. Maybe I could still recite it, better than him. After all, I had a feel for poetry, right? If I could just get through it, without making a mistake. Or, even say...I made one little mistake. But then it happened. I started to feel their eyes...boring into me. It was like a chain-reaction. I couldn't stop it. It just got worse. And worse! It was the poetry recitation from hell. Then it was over. Mrs. Sen walked upto me and said nonchalantly, “OK, so you choked. But it's no big deal. You'll do better tomorrow night”.

 

There was no tomorrow night. That night I threatened my parents that I’d leave home, join the hippies or whoever would take me if they force me to recite. I never did forget that night. I remember the light glowing from the B Block Club house, the place of recitals. And I remember the darkness falling as I sat out there on the street looking in. And now more than twenty years later... I still remember every word of the poem that wandered out into the still night air. The only thing is... can't remember how to recite it anymore.