Beijing Before the Boom

 

Pics: Panpan, the mascot for the Beijing 1990 Asian Games, in front of the National Olympic Sports Center in Beijing; the author at the Great Wall of China 

(Fear, Discipline and the Asian Games, 1990)

By Shevlin Sebastian 

Photographs: Nikhil Bhattacharya

It was an incident in a restaurant that really opened one's eyes to the lack of freedom in China.

A Filipino journalist walked in, accompanied by a Chinese girl dressed in a suit. 

The restaurant went into a flurry.

A waiter approached her and said in Chinese that she wasn’t allowed inside. The journalist mentioned that she was his guest. The waiter continued to rattle off something in Chinese to the girl. She replied, a defiant look on her face.

The journalist insisted she was with him. 

The waiter turned away, but suddenly there was a palpable tension. An elderly head waitress came in, whispered something to the waiter, and withdrew. The girl looked embarrassed now.

But that was not the end of the matter. Within moments, two big, muscular Chinese plainclothesmen with close-cropped hair came in from the kitchen. 

They walked past the girl’s table and positioned themselves near the door.

Then a balding head security man, in his mid-60s, joined them. They huddled briefly, then spoke to the waiter. By now, the look of defiance on the girl’s face had turned to fear.

It was a chilling sight: the State asserting its power against the individual. 

The individual wilted under the twin forces of fear and helplessness. She ate her meal, but there was no joy in it.

China’s authoritarian control was laid bare in that restaurant in Beijing. Yet, the city had been spruced up for the Asian Games. There were wide avenues, broad sidewalks with flower pots at every corner, flags flying from lamp posts, and, every now and then, someone sweeping the sidewalk with a broom. The roads were wide and smooth, with a separate lane for cycles. It was right-hand drive in China, although most of the cars were of Japanese make.

It would seem a modern city. But what lingered in the air was the unmistakable weight of fear. A glass wall that cuts through daily life.

Crowded, dirty and noisy, the bylanes told a different story. People spat on the streets — an act that would incur fines on the main roads, but was ignored in these alleyways.

The Chinese people, by and large, were wary of foreigners. They had been instructed not to mingle with them. As soon as they saw one, they looked away.

The government added another barrier. Foreigners had to use a separate currency — the Foreign Exchange Certificate (FEC). It differed from the regular Renminbi. Shopping was hard, especially in places not designated for tourists. Some shopkeepers flatly refused to accept the FECs. Even taxi drivers demanded Renminbi.

It was not a free country. 

A young Chinese student put it plainly: “China is not a good country to live in. People are scared all the time.”

Cosmetic changes aside, China remained poor. The average monthly income was about 100 yuan (Rs 500). But food was cheap, clothing inexpensive, and rents fixed at just five percent of a person’s salary. Still, mobility was severely restricted.

To travel from one province to another, a special permit was required. Going abroad was nearly impossible. 

“How lucky you are,” said a university student wistfully. “We are not allowed to do so.”

The government rarely issued passports. If a businessman wanted to travel abroad, he first had to deposit 10,000 yuan (Rs 50,000) as a guarantee.

And yet, ironically, despite this intense insularity, the Chinese wore unmistakably Western clothes. Men wore shirts and trousers; women wore jeans, skirts, and suits. Only the older generation still clung to traditional attire. 

The people in Beijing said that September–October was the best time of the year. The temperature hovered around 20°C, with a beautiful breeze, bright sunlight, and a clear blue sky. There was no need for a pullover and the air was so pure. 

Surely Beijing, with its numerous cycles and trolley buses, must be one of the least polluted cities in the world.

But when you went to a restaurant, they muddled your mind. 

If you ordered soup with your meals, they would serve it at the end. And if you ordered pudding, they served it at the beginning. And if you asked for a glass of water, they brought boiling water. Amazing! 

But they think we want to drink tea all the time, even at 9 p.m.

All this sounds depressing, but there were high points to the trip. 

One was the visit to the Great Wall of China. It was 75 km from Beijing. No doubt, it was one of the most incredible sights. A man-made wonder. It was only when one was physically there that one could comprehend its magnificence.

It was a testament to the will and determination of man, to build a wall like this, stretching 6000 km across rugged mountains. It was not a high wall, about 50 ft in height, but very rugged. But the length boggled the mind. 

It was built around 700 BC by the Eastern Zhou dynasty to repel invaders. The raw beauty of the place: mountains on all sides, a cool breeze blowing constantly, and the air that came from Siberia. The utter stillness. Just you, the Wall, and the clean air.

What a contrast to Chowringhee in Calcutta at office time.

To walk on the Wall was physically tiring. Up and down it went, and sometimes it was so steep that steps had to be cut into the stone, and handrails inserted, so that we could climb it. 

They say that it is the only man-made construction visible from the moon.

The other high point was a 2200-km train journey from Beijing to Canton. 

The train was an express and the cost of the hard sleeper ticket was 250 yuan. The railway clerk discouraged this writer from buying a hard sleeper ticket, saying that it was uncomfortable. But it wasn’t. It was equivalent to AC first class in India.

There were three-tier berths filled with upper-class Chinese families. For the average Chinese, 250 yuan meant a fortune. The train was clean and a worker swept the floor every two hours with a wet broom.

Outside, the scenery was exactly as in India: paddy fields, mountains, small huts, towns and trucks on the highway. Although cars seemed non-existent.

And in the midst of it, some drama: a young Bangladeshi had bought a 100 yuan (Rs 500) student’s ticket. At a station, the collector wanted to see his passport to verify whether he was actually a student or not. 

In fact, he was a journalist. 

By then, a small crowd had collected around him, curious and surprised. But the Bangladeshi was calm in the centre of so much attention. He pretended not to understand, then in sign language said that he was a refugee and brazened his way out. After a while, they left him alone. 

Later, he said, with a mocking smile on his face, “Munjia and China have good relations.” (“Munjia,” incidentally, is the Chinese name for Bangladesh.) 

When the Bangladeshi was being the centre of attention, one was reminded suddenly of how Ashwini Nachappa became the centre of attention at the Indian Ambassador’s party. 

She came in dressed in a black chiffon saree with a halter blouse. She left the Kerala female athletes’ contingent trailing in her wake.

Photographs were snapped of Ashwini, first by photographers, then with photographers, athletes, officials, journalists, and the Indian Ambassador. The poor man’s Flo-Jo had metamorphosed into the Marilyn Monroe of Indian athletics.

The train was one-and-a-half hours late. 

We arrived at 9 a.m. 

It was with relief that one took another train (and how one bought a ticket in English-ignorant Canton is another story) from Canton and out of China to Hong Kong.

The overwhelming impression is of people stifling under repressive controls, wanting to be free, and yet not confident enough in making that bid for freedom and multiparty democracy. As a student said: “We are waiting for the present leadership to die, before we can hope to make changes.”

Throughout the stay of three weeks, I was so glad to be an Indian. That I could stand at any corner and say anything about Prime Minister V.P. Singh without any fear; that there is a free press at home; that one can travel freely from one part of the country to another without asking permission from anyone, except your wallet.

(Published in The Telegraph Colour Magazine, November 25, 1990) 

When a group of South Africans met Mother Teresa

 

COLUMN: TUNNEL OF TIME

By Shevlin Sebastian

Mother Teresa walked in, her arms held akimbo, onto the veranda of the first floor of the Missionaries of Charity in Calcutta. It was in November, 1991. The group of people who had been sitting on two wooden benches instinctively got up.

Awe, respect, fear and affection seemed to suddenly rise up. She came and stood in the middle of the group, a short, stooping figure, with a wonderful and innocent smile and said, ‘Thank you very much for coming. If I remember right, a group of South Africans had come this morning.’

It was 4 p.m.

‘Yes Mother,’ said Geoff Dakin, the President of the United Cricket Board of South Africa (UCBSA). ‘But we have come to give you a donation.’

(This tour marked South Africa’s return to international cricket after decades of isolation due to apartheid. The first one-day match was at the Eden Gardens, just days earlier. As for the Missionaries of Charity Mother Teresa founded it in 1950. Today, there are branches in 139 countries.)  

‘Oh, thank you very much for your concern for God’s work,’ she replied.

She was speaking so softly that all present had to bend, especially the 6’2” Geoff, to hear what she was saying. And then the magic and the power of her personality took over.

There was something peaceful and calm about her that washed over all of us. Ambition; greed; anger; frustration -- all this was swept away. In its place was this tranquil feeling. It was clear all of us were in the presence of somebody holy, powerful and full of integrity.

‘My, what a big packet you have given me,’ she exclaimed.

‘Yes,’ said Krish Mackerdhuj, Vice-President of UCBSA. ‘There’s a hundred thousand rupees.’

‘A hundred thousand,’ said Mother Teresa. ‘Thank you very much. We need the money. We could open a Children’s Home in Cape Town.’

The normally loquacious and magnetic Krish was at a loss of words.

The two South African journalists, Carl Bongj and Gerald Dekock -- one black, one white, of the South African Broadcasting Corporation, stood silently.

Earlier, while waiting for the Nobel Laureate, Krish, brown-skinned and of Indian origin, said, ‘We hadn’t planned a donation. But when we saw the work that she was doing, we felt compelled to help in some way. And the Board decided to give this money. A hundred thousand rupees is equivalent to 10,000 South African rand.’

Then he turned to Bongj, and said, ‘Hey, tell me, Bongj, do you want to buy a baby tiger, to take back home.’

‘A baby tiger to take home?’ said Bongj. ‘Where can you get them?’

‘You can get them at any street corner of Calcutta,’ said Krish. ‘It’s not very expensive. It will be a good gift.’

Bongj rubbed his hair with his right hand, his eyes wide open and astonished, and then he saw the smile slowly breaking out on Krish’s face.

‘Hey man,’ he said, as realisation dawned on him. ‘You’re pulling my leg!’

And then Gerald asked Bongj: ‘Where do you live?’

Bongj replied, ‘I live in Soweto, but I’m planning to move out. There’s too much violence in Soweto.’

It was remarkable that these two men, both in their thirties and working for the same broadcaster, did not know where the other lived.

They seemed to be bridging the colour barrier for the first time.

Was this the effect of Mother Teresa?

Two people, in a building of love, thousands of kilometres away from home, making the first tentative steps across the racial divide.

(Published in Sportsworld, November 20, 1991)

Murders Most Foul

 

Author Kulpreet Yadav focuses on seven chilling true-crime cases from all over India in his book, ‘Dial 100’. The pace is electric and the stories are heart-breaking

By Shevlin Sebastian

Best-selling author Kulpreet Yadav’s second true-crime book, ‘Dial 100,’ begins with style: Ravi Sunderrajan took the final sip of his whisky, placed the crystal glass down and looked around. Long-legged Indian and Eastern European hostesses were serving drinks to gamblers who were busy at different tables in the casino, their eyes focused and faces flushed. Instrumental jazz played, and the air smelled of whisky, skewered meats and expensive perfume.

This scene takes place in a floating casino anchored on the Mandovi River off Panjim, Goa. And just like that the reader is off and running.

Ravi, a bank clerk, tipped off two professional thieves from Guna in Madhya Pradesh about a scheduled transfer of Rs 300 crore being moved by his bank from Salem to Chennai for the Reserve Bank of India.

The motive? Money.

In the end it is a successful heist. The theft was discovered only nine hours later. This gave enough time for the thieves to get away.

The thieves left no clues. It took over two years to track them down.

In the next story, Kulpreet describes the rape and murder of a five-year-old in an under-construction building in Mumbai in exacting detail. It was painful to read.

Like many murderers, the assailant was an ordinary man. He studied in a convent school till Class 10, gained a diploma in engineering, spoke good English and worked in a company. Again it took clever sleuthing to bring down the culprit.

The next case is even more disturbing. In Kerala, a 29-year-old woman Jaya was raped. But Kulpreet’s description of the act was so lifelike it was almost like watching a movie. You get an idea of the horror a woman can go through when she is physically attacked.

Kulpreet writes about a child being kidnapped from a school in Delhi. The suspect, who was from Nepal, raped and murdered her, before fleeing the country. For three years, there was no movement in the case.

When the case was revived, the police, with the help of an acquaintance, lured the suspect back to India with the promise of a high-paying job. When the grieving parents — who had known the man — finally faced him again, the father delivered a resounding slap. It was a brief moment of emotional release.

There are seven cases in total. The crimes took place in Tamil Nadu, Maharashtra, Kerala, Delhi, Haryana, West Bengal and Andhra Pradesh.

Kulpreet keeps the pace brisk, often leaving the reader breathless as the investigations unfold.

Kulpreet had a particular reason to write about the stories. In the preface he cites a disturbing statistic. There is a low police-to-population ratio of 150 officers per one lakh citizens. This is far below the minimum 200 mark stipulated by the United Nations. In India, this is compounded by poor salaries, long working hours and lack of advanced training.

‘And yet, despite these constraints, countless police officers rise above the odds every day,’ Kuldeep writes. ‘They go beyond the call of duty, harnessing ingenuity, determination and cutting-edge technology – often self-taught – to solve crimes that seem impossible to crack. Their dedication, often at the expense of personal comfort and family time, deserves not just recognition but also admiration.’

Kulpreet worked for 23 years in the armed forces before voluntarily retiring as a commandant in the Indian Coast Guard in 2014. ‘I took part in many anti-smuggling and piracy missions in the maritime zones of India,’ he said. ‘That gave me insight into how the police work. Over time, I befriended several officers and spent time with them. I understood how their minds were wired.’

He said he hoped to send two messages through his stories. One is that the police are not as bad as we make them out to be. ‘The second message is for would-be criminals. No matter how ‘perfect’ their crime is, there will be some officer who will use his mind or technology to nab him. I hope this will deter a lot of people and make our society a lot safer.’

When asked why it is difficult to do the perfect crime, Kulpreet said, ‘The airwaves are monitored, there are cameras everywhere. Earlier, you just had to avoid leaving fingerprints and ensure there were no eyewitnesses.’

Reviving cold cases

What has excited law enforcement is that they are now able to find the murderers of cases that are over 30 years old thanks to advances in DNA detection.

Asked whether there is a particular mandate from the government to go after these cases, Kulpreet said, ‘As far as I know, there’s no such thing. But what happens is that these cases prick the conscience of officers who haven’t been able to solve them. So, an officer after 25 years might remember a case that took place years ago that has continued to haunt him. So he revives it.’

The odds are stacked against the police. ‘They don’t have the latest technology,’ said Kulpreet. ‘The forensic labs are very few and training in this subject is scanty.’

In an interview to this reviewer on the HarperBroadcast Channel, on World Book Day, Kulpreet was asked about why true crime always had readers.

He said, ‘More than the thrill of it, people want the bad man behind bars. In true crime stories, that’s how the story ends.’

He acknowledged that readers today have shorter attention spans. So Kulpreet has adopted methods to tackle this. ‘My strategy is not to beat around the bush,’ he said. ‘I get straight to the point. A story has two parts: description and dialogue. Better to keep the description between 10-15 percent. No telling, all showing is a technique I use. Short sentences. No difficult words at all.’

He said there was a time 30 years ago when people took pride in writing good English. ‘But if you write good English today, people don’t care,’ he said. ‘They want to understand a book.’

Flowery language, he believes, can sometimes become a barrier between the reader and the story. ‘I work hard to keep it simple,’ he said. ‘My writing should be like a window pane. We need to write simply to reach readers in the WhatsApp era — otherwise, we’ll lose them.’

The future looks difficult.

A few months ago, when Kulpreet was at the P3 Terminal at Delhi airport, he visited the WH Smith book store. He got a shock when he discovered that the store had shut down. ‘When book stores are not able to sustain themselves at an airport in the capital of India – a nation of story-tellers – we are in a difficult situation.’

Kulpreet has published 16 books so far. Apart from crime, he has written on military history.

As to whether he had any tips for new writers, Kulpreet said, ‘They should write on the subject they are interested in. Also read a lot of books in the genre they want to write in. Then they will be in a nice position to write a good book.’

(Published in katha.org (Singapore)

Off the Beighton track

When my friend George Themplangad showed me that printed articles could be converted into computer text on Chat GPT, the idea arose of putting up my older pieces.

I selected this article, primarily for the brilliant headline given by Sportsworld's Associate Editor David McMahon.

And secondly, it might have withstood the passage of time.

These type of moments can happen at a match even today.

Asked to cover the Beighton Cup hockey final, I also focused on what was happening outside the field.

The article was published in the Sportsworld Magazine of May 15-21, 1985.

I am hoping to upload once a week.

COLUMN: The Tunnel Of Time

Shevlin Sebastian watched the final and monitored the crowd reaction to the match

Occasional clouds scudded across the Calcutta sky but there was no hint of rain. Standing outside the Mohun Bagan ground on the Saturday of the Beighton Cup final between Indian Airlines and EME, Jalandhar, one saw people in ones and twos, in small groups, walking purposefully across the Maidan towards the gates of the club.

Paaban Bhumia is a teacher in a primary school. A stockily built 27-year-old, he had come all the way from Burdwan to watch the Beighton Cup final.

‘Well,’ he replied, on being asked the reason for coming from so far away, to witness this hockey match. ‘At least, I can see some top players.’

Sailen Majumdar, 50, is a government employee who worked in Writers’ Buildings. A short man, he wore thick spectacles perched on his nose and was dressed in a white shirt and faded black pants.

Why had he come to watch the game? He paused thoughtfully and replied: ‘This final features two important national teams and I want to watch them play’.

Did he, by any chance, watch the matches of the Calcutta Hockey League?

Sailen smiled and said, ‘The standard is so poor, that there is no use in watching.’

However, unlike the hockey league, Calcuttans did not exactly ignore the Beighton Cup and the presence of star-studded teams.

People began to drift in and at whistle time, there was a fairly decent crowd. The crowd was cosmopolitan, showing so effectively the diversity of the city.

So, you saw the sight of a sophisticated man in a safari suit, with a helmet in his hand. Then there was the less affluent youth, wearing a cotton shirt and trousers, with mud-crusted chappals on his feet. You had the sight of a paan-chewer in a white kurta-dhoti, sitting with his palms on his thighs. Then there was the ubiquitous know-all supporter, slim and thin, who passed expert comments for the benefit of the people around him.

The teams ran on to the playing field which was lustrous and green although there were a few bald patches here and there. The players began to flex their muscles and some of them took a few shots.

‘Who is Number 14?’ asked a middle aged Sardarji.

‘Zafar Iqbal!’ was the slightly sardonic reply.

A fat man with an enormous paunch and an unkempt beard, said very loudly: ‘Ashok Kumar is in great form. Once, in Calcutta, we had good players like Inam-ur-Rahman, Joginder Singh, and even Ashok Kumar played here once.’

The bully-off took place and the game started.

The pace was fast and quick.

Both teams mounted a series of attacks.

Merwyn Fernandes of Indian Airlines received a pass in front of the goal and, with only the goalkeeper to beat, shot wide.

A spectator commented, with a trace of bitterness, ‘There is no finish’.

As the game continued, a different form of activity was noticed in the stands.

A man who was selling groundnuts was roundly criticised for blocking the view.

‘Why can’t you sell your stuff during the interval?’ asked a spectator who looked fierce and angry.

‘Sorry Sahib!’ said the groundnut seller, his face showing a lifetime of compromise and endless exploitation.

In a middle tier, separate and distinct, sat a young, broad-shouldered Punjabi with his new wife. She wore a purple salwar-kameez and her face looked radiant and healthy in the afternoon sun. But it was obvious that she had come to the ground for the sake of her husband because, soon after the match started, she was avidly reading a Hindi film magazine.

As the match progressed, there was the occasional cheer for the good move, and heartfelt applause for a superb show of dribbling by a particular player. Sometimes, in the silence, a plaintive ‘Oh Zafar Bhai’ would be heard.

Zafar Iqbal, on the left flank, roamed the area like a hungry panther. Slim and lithe, holding the stick tightly in his hands, in front of his body, he would break into a swift, furious run, the ball perfectly under his control as he flicked the ball towards the centre of the ‘D’. Sometimes, it was collected but nothing was ever converted into a goal. Sometimes, the ball went abegging.

At 4 p.m, the whistle blew and it was half time, the teams still locked in a goalless draw.

Spectators got up and went down the steps to the latrines.

‘Not a bad match,’ a man said, ‘at least, so far.’

Suddenly, as if seeing the crowd in perspective for the first time, a bald man in a T-shirt said, ‘What do you say? This is the best crowd of the season?’

On the ground, drinks were offered to the players who slaked their thirst in obvious satisfaction. Free drinks were offered to journalists, officials and important guests. Seeing this, a spectator who sat on a bench with his friends near the corner flag decided to try his luck, but had to return, disappointed.

Meanwhile, the second half started on a brisk note. Up in the sky, grey clouds ran riot completely obscuring the sun and now, the breeze that was blowing in from the Hooghly river, was cool and soothing.

Indian Airline’s full-back, Veerendra Bahadur Singh, took a stinging 16-yard shot and it was collected by Merwyn Fernandes and he began a solo effort. His back was bent, his eyes on the white ball, his wrists flicking the stick this way and that, he moved down, going past one opponent and then the other. But just when it seemed that he was getting dangerous, Merwyn was suddenly

dispossessed.

The crowd groaned in frustration, as another attack was blunted at the right time. But, in the seventh minute, the Airlines outfit struck home. A penalty corner was collected by Vineet Kumar, who passed it on to Zafar Iqbal, and he took a shot which was deflected into the EME net through Merwyn’s stick. Airlines 1, EME 0.

The latter, stung to the quick by the reverse, went furiously on the attack and they managed a penalty corner.

‘Jai Bajrang Bali’ a spectator shouted from the sidelines, ‘let there be a goal’.

But the call proved abortive and as the minutes ticked away, the game began to slow down and lose direction.

Very near the sidelines, a young child in a pink skirt and ponytails, barely three feet in height, ran to and fro, enjoying herself. Sometimes, when the crowd cheered or clapped loudly, she would stop, stare at the crowd with wide, curious eyes, and clap in imitation. Her father, clad in khaki, who stood a few feet away from her, smiled occasionally at her.

The match drifted on and on.

At 5 p.m., the whistle was blown. The players came off with tired faces. Meanwhile a few spectators swarmed on to the ground and encircled the wooden table which contained the glittering trophies and the individual awards.

The announcers implored the other spectators to stay and witness the prize-giving ceremony. There was a crush of people and young players formed a barricade with their sticks.

A police sergeant, with wide, bulging eyes, shouted at a constable to ‘maintain discipline’. The photographers crowded around, trying to get a vantage point.

Meanwhile, the Minister for Sports, Subhas Chakravarty, was invited to speak and he said the usual stuff about the state government’s willingness to offer full support, to bring the Beighton Cup back to its former glory... etc...etc...

The trophy was presented to the Airlines captain and the crowd strained to push and see.

‘Those photographers!’ a spectator said in disgust. ‘Can’t see a thing.’

The sergeant, sensing the crowd pushing forward, turned around and shouted, ‘Why can’t you all stop pushing?’

The crowd fell back for a moment and as soon as he looked away, there was again a forward thrust. And, at last, all the prizes were presented and thus, the 1985 Beighton Cup came to an end.

The Beighton Cup is a tournament that is still twitching, still struggling to live on, and perhaps the coverage by the radio, press and television might just about give it a new lease of life.

(Published in Sportsworld, May 1985)

Awakening The Soul

 

In his book, ‘The Practice of Immortality’, spiritual leader Ishan Shivanand talks about the need to go in inwards and link up with the divine energy for mental peace and happiness  

By Shevlin Sebastian 

In spiritual leader Ishan Shivanand’s book, ‘The Practice of Immortality’, opposite the contents page is a quote from the Bhagwad Gita: 

‘The Spirit is neither born nor does it die at any time. It does not come into being or cease to exist. It is unborn, eternal, permanent and primeval. The Spirit is not destroyed when the body is destroyed.’ 

And this quote sets the tone of the book. In the introduction, Ishan tells a story: ‘Two birds perch on the same tree, inseparable companions. One bird eats the fruit, while the other looks on. The first bird is our finite self, feeding on the pleasures and pains of its deeds, consuming all the anxiety, the stress, the overwhelm of this life. The second bird is our immortal, infinite self, silently and serenely watching it all.’ 

Ishan added, ‘The universe within us. All people already possess immortality within themselves — most are just unaware of it. I am setting out to wake them from their slumber.’ 

Ishan belonged to a long line of yogis. He spent the first 20 years of his life in an ashram. One day, his guru told him a parable: 

Glass can either be a mirror or a window. ‘When you look in a mirror, you see only a reflection of yourself; when you look at a window, you see through it to the beauty and infinity of the universe around you. A mirror is painted black on one side; a window is pure, unobscured. To change a mirror into glass, you must purify it, removing the paint.’ 

Ishan was initiated into the spiritual life as a child by his father, Dr. Avdhoot Shivanand, the noted yogic guru in a monastery in the deserts of Rajasthan, near the Aravalli mountains. 

Interestingly, and with a sense of humour, Ishan said that when people come to know he was a monk, they regarded him either as a healer or an oddity. Some people asked bizarre questions: Can you fly? Do you fart rainbows? 

As he grew older, Ishan came to a realisation. ‘There are only two kinds of people,’ he wrote. “The ones who have already realised the god within, and the ones who have the potential to realise the god within.

One of the pivotal moments of his childhood occurred when a flood destroyed their ashram. Father and son moved to the suburb of Dwarka in New Delhi. Dr. Avdhoot was building an ashram in a swamp. In this swamp, the locals threw their garbage and defecated into it. It was near the airport. So, the roar of planes flying in and out was incessant. And because of railway tracks nearby, trains thundered past all the time. Apart from all this, car horns blared constantly. Children shouted. Couples fought and screamed at each other. Ishan found it difficult to adjust after the tranquility of the ashram in Rajasthan.  

This is how he described it: ‘Humans are a little like sponges. We assimilate the energies that are around us. I would witness people who were angry, and, somehow, I would feel their anger, too.’   

So, how to reclaim mental calmness? Ishan’s way was to recite mantras. He said that is the surest way to connect with divine energy. ‘Mantras are the gateway to the supreme power,’ he wrote. 

Incidentally, after every chapter, Ishan offered a meditation practice: 

Here are a couple: 

No. 1 

Sit comfortably, relax your body, and focus on a memory of gratitude.

 Feel the positive thoughts and emotions of that memory. 

 Gently embrace and accept its energy, allowing it to flow into the past from the present. 

No. 2

Sit comfortably, relax your body, and meditate on the sun. 

Imagine the sun as a friend, embodying all the positivity, divinity, and strength you need.

Inhale for a count of three, feeling the sun’s light flow into your head and through your entire body. 

Exhale for a count of three, releasing everything from your body through your head and into the sun. 

One, two, three — inhale deeply, three-two-one — exhale fully. 

Repeat this cycle for ten minutes, keeping your breath as deep as possible. 

Ishan confirmed the problem with humanity is ego. 

He wrote: ‘Ego does not allow us to see what is obvious. In his book, The Gift Of Fear, American security specialist Gavin de Becker wrote: “Your intuition exists, in part, to help you stay safe — to recognise when something isn’t right and to guide you away from danger.” But the avidya, the ego, has a trick up its sleeve: it speaks so loudly that it drowns out the inner voice of your intuition.’    

And because of the constant strictures from society, people ignore their inner voice and follow the dictates of others. 

Ishan learned to activate the prana, the life-force energy that animates all human beings, with the help of a teacher, Mashe, who was a master of kalaripayattu.    

As he grew up, Ishan came to a realisation about his life journey. He would help people to go from avidya to vidya, to move from lack of knowledge to knowledge. ‘My job was to clean people’s minds,’ he wrote. ‘Once the mind was habitable, a person’s higher self could take over.’ 

Yet Ishan’s path has been unconventional. He has engaged deeply with the world even while he nurtured a rich inner life of meditation. He has deftly maintained a link between outer action and inner stillness.  

So, he is married with a boy and a girl. In Washington, you can see Ishan in a tuxedo; in Mauritius, he conducts his ‘Yoga for Immortals’ mental wellness programme for athletes; In the Himalayas, you can see Ishan swimming in a lake; he prays at the Ram Mandir in Ayodhya; he travels the Atlantic Ocean by ship; and he meditates on a frozen lake near the Arctic Circle. 

In one photo on Instagram, Ishan is on his knees with folded palms seeking blessings from enlightened master Mahant Swami Maharaj of the Swaminarayan Sanstha, the proponent of Sanathan Dharma, which has its headquarters in Ahmedabad. 

Over his maroon monk dress, Ishan had put on a sleeveless waist jacket, which showed his bulging biceps. The Mahant Swami Maharaj looked at his muscles and said, “Ladka Balwan Che (the boy is strong).” All the swamis present along with Ishan started laughing. Then a very senior swami said, “A strong body and mind are needed for the work Ishan has chosen to do.”

The Mahant Swami Maharajji gazed at Ishan with compassion in his eyes and said, “You will succeed. I bless you.”

One can see Ishan doing weightlifting, practicing target shooting, hitting the bull’s-eye, and enjoying video games in a mall. With a thick salt and pepper beard, and a ready smile, he gives the impression of being in this world and not being in it as well. Apart from being a spiritual leader, he is an international public speaker and a performance enhancement coach. 

The yogi has earned a Doctorate of Philosophy in Humanities from the United Graduate College and Seminary International in Kampala, Uganda. 

This book is a reminder of the spiritual life that many of us are missing at this point. From early morning until late at night, we constantly distract ourselves with Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube videos. And in this empty activity, we have forgotten there is a divine energy within us. 

This has also resulted in a grave psychological breakdown all over the world. People turn to drugs, alcohol, sex, power, fame, and fleeting relationships to fill the void within. But Ishan says, the simple answer but very difficult to implement is the path of meditation and inner awakening. 

He says the only way is the way inward. As Lord Buddha and Jesus Christ said thousands of years ago, ‘Know Thy Self.’ Through the book, you can get an idea of how to travel into the soul, and connect with the Divine. 

It is a timeless path to reclaiming your life!

(Published in kitaab.org, Singapore)

A Shining Star

 

Captions: Published by Penguin India; Author Sanghamitra Chakraborty; Soumitra Chatterjee as Apu; the memory card scene in Aranyer Din Ratri

In this absorbing biography, Sanghamitra Chakraborty traces the life and career of Soumitra Chatterjee, one of Bengal’s greatest actors

By Shevlin Sebastian

Early in the book, ‘Soumitra Chatterjee and His World’, author Sanghamitra Chakraborty recounts a memory of the actor when he was six years old.

One day, because he was sick, Soumitra could not go to school. His elder brother Sambit returned from school earlier than scheduled. Their mother, Ashalata, asked Sambit the reason why.

Here is how Soumitra remembered that moment:

“Rabindranath Tagore is dead, so our headmaster announced a holiday,” Dada said flatly.

‘When I heard this, I knew Tagore must be a great man. Why else would they announce a holiday? That was my only response then — I hadn’t matured enough to react to the tragedy, but I noticed that my mother’s world was shaken. Ma couldn’t keep standing — she held onto the railing and sat down slowly.’

Ashalata was an ardent admirer of Tagore. Like his mother, later in life, Soumitra worshipped Tagore as a sage, prophet, great artist and social reformer.

An ardent bibliophile, Soumitra read Pather Panchali by Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay when he was a teenager. Later, he wrote, ‘I had no idea then that playing the role of the grown-up Apu [protagonist of Pather Panchali] would be the birth of my acting career.’

During his studies at the CMS St. John’s School in Krishnanagar, Soumitra took part in plays and elocution contests. In Class Five, he played the prince in Sleeping Beauty.

‘People in the audience gave away awards to young actors then,’ he wrote. ‘I was thrilled to receive medals at that age. Perhaps an obsession with acting later took hold of me thanks to those medals. Who knows?’

But it was not always an idyllic life. He saw some tragedies first-hand. During the Bengal Famine of 1943, in which 30 lakh people died, Soumitra recalled the unbearable stench of dead bodies piling up on the streets in Krishnanagar.

One day, a starving man took shelter in a courtyard next door. Soumitra used to take rotis from his dinner and give it to him. One night, he could not do so. He wrote, ‘Next morning, I found the man dead — a bag of bones covered in skin heaped in one corner. His misshapen metal bowl had a few morsels of food left in it.’

It would leave a permanent scar on his heart.

As he grew up and got a job at All India Radio, he was always keen to embark on an acting career. His life changed when, one day, while recuperating at home from chicken pox, Satyajit Ray’s assistant Subir Hazra told him the maestro wanted to meet him.

When Soumitra stepped into Ray’s house, the latter said, ‘There you are, please come in. But everything seems fine. I don’t see any marks on your face! Someone was saying you had developed pockmarks. This is nothing. It should be fine.’

The result: Soumitra was cast as the lead in Apur Sansar. Soumitra began preparing and remembered the advice given by theatre guru Sisir Bhaduri. As author Sanghamitra writes, as an actor he had to interrogate the script ‘like a detective’, read carefully between the lines, look for clues to recreate in his mind the unexpressed bits of the story or character and peel away the top layers to unearth what was beneath.

Apur Sansar became a hit and launched the career of Soumitra.

The New York Times critic Bosley Crowther wrote, ‘In the role of Apu, Soumitra Chatterjee is timid, tender, sad, serene, superb. He is the perfect extension of Apu as a man.’

Sanghamitra delves at length into the relationship between Soumitra and Satyajit Ray, which changed the young actor’s life completely.

Ray’s son Sandip spoke about the ‘instant chemistry’ between his father and Soumitra. ‘Even before Baba spoke, Soumitra Kaku knew what he wanted,’ said Sandip. ‘You rarely see this kind of understanding between a director and an actor.’

Sanghamitra dwells at length on one of Ray’s greatest films, Charulata (1964) and the roles played by Soumitra and Madhabi Mukherjee.

In the end, Soumitra and Ray worked in many films together, including Kapurush, Aranyer Din Ratri, and Asani Sanket. ‘The fun in working with him [Ray] was that he gave you immense freedom,’ said Soumitra. ‘And when you took the initiative, he would come up with a suggestion that would take it to the next level.’

The praise was mutual. Once Ray said, ‘Out of my 27 [28] films, he has acted the lead role in 14. This makes it obvious how much I trust him and how highly I regard him as an actor. I know I will depend on him until the last day of my life as an artist.’

Interestingly, in the famous memory card game scene in Aranyer Din Ratri, Ray placed the camera in the middle of the group that sat in a circle on a sheet on a ground in Palamau. The actors included Soumitra Chatterjee, Sharmila Tagore, Kaberi Bose, Subhendu Chatterjee, Samit Bhanja, and Robi Ghosh.

As Sanghamitra writes, ‘Though his close-ups, with the roving camera, paused on each face, Ray superbly captured their mental landscape and the emerging group dynamics.’ Later, Sharmila said that it was so hot the shooting had to be completed within an hour.

This tie-up of Soumitra with Ray lasted from 1959 to 1992, when Ray passed away on April 23, at the age of 70.

What impressed Ray and the crew members was how meticulously Soumitra prepared for each shot.

‘He always arrived on time and came well prepared,’ said Sandip. ‘For example, he would make a note of the number of shirt buttons he had left unbuttoned from the last time [for continuity]. His discipline was remarkable.’ In the end, Chatterjee acted in over 300 films in a 60-year career.

Sanghamitra also focuses on other films. It was interesting to note that in Teen Bhubaner Pare (1969), there was a song called Jibone Ki Pabona in which Soumitra did the twist in an elegant style.

The YouTube video was a pleasure to watch and the catchy tune and the lively singing by Manna Dey felt dynamic and uplifting. It is a song that still sounds good. And there have been many covers of it over the years.

This is an absorbing book. Undoubtedly, a lot of research has been done. Sanghamitra interviewed around 75 people, apart from family members.

What was a blow to the author was the star’s unexpected death because of lung complications from Covid on November 15, 2020, at the age of 85. So Sanghamitra could not talk to the star, but his copious autobiographical writings provided a lot of information.

This book is a valuable addition to the literature of film. For fans of Soumitra, this is a must-read.

Actor Sharmila Tagore wrote in the foreword, ‘Soumitra had his reasons to avoid Bombay, of course, but Indian audiences are the poorer for it.’ So, for film lovers in other parts of India and the world who are not aware of this titan, this book will be a revelation.

A shorter version was published in The Sunday Magazine, New Indian Express, South India and Delhi)