THE RELIGION OF RESISTANCE
Prama
“Mother, should I trust the government”, read the first poster, which I chanced to look upon, as I entered Pramod da’s canteen. Pramod da, one of the most popular figures in the campus, was busy talking to some of his clients in the counter, as I entered the Presidency college canteen, for the first time. Completely oblivious of ‘yet another girl’s entry’, he was shouting at a group of the students, who were banging the table, and singing (if I might call the action, so).
“Oto jore table bajale, toh table gulo aar thakbena”...
(“Do not bang those tables, they are old and will not be able to withstand your torture”), he yelled.
I was taken aback. The place was smoky, crowdie and indeed very noisy. The wall; the little that was visible in between the posters and the wall graffiti; was not very well-painted, cement flakes coming out from here and there. To sum it up, it was quite a different atmosphere for a ‘convent- educated’ girl, like me, who had for the past 13 years of life, learnt to be a perfectly God fearing, ‘lady like’ disciplinarian .
“Oto jore table bajale, toh table gulo aar thakbena”...
(“Do not bang those tables, they are old and will not be able to withstand your torture”), he yelled.
I was taken aback. The place was smoky, crowdie and indeed very noisy. The wall; the little that was visible in between the posters and the wall graffiti; was not very well-painted, cement flakes coming out from here and there. To sum it up, it was quite a different atmosphere for a ‘convent- educated’ girl, like me, who had for the past 13 years of life, learnt to be a perfectly God fearing, ‘lady like’ disciplinarian .
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A widely circulated picture of the vacated Presidency
College canteen (courtesy: Abhinandan Ghose)
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A
typical day at Pramod da’s (courtesy: Friend and photographer, Arijita
Mukherjee)
The place however did not repel
me, neither was the environment completely unexpected. Growing up in a typical
Bengali middle class family, I remember going to the Indian coffee house[1] ,
quite often as my parents would decide to pay their almost regular visit to the
College street, on weekends. It was more or less a regular affair. My parents
would take a corner table, near the window in the 1st floor of the hall, and
order Kabiraji and Cold coffee for the three of us. I would be left wide eyed,
wondering how can that persistent hum of people talking, continue. I would
stare at each and every individual in the hall, some speaking, some vehemently
nodding their head, others trying to put in a word or two in the conversation.
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A file picture of
the entrance of Indian Coffee House
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A file picture of
the Indian Coffee House (Image
courtesy: http://thewindowsilltales.wordpress.com/tag/park-street/ )
At this point I would be
invariably interrupted by some acquaintance of my parents’ who having spotted
us from some other corner of the hall, would come up to our table, bring in a
chair and join us. Slowly the number of chairs would increase as the topic of
discussion would range from the recent book that they have read to the new
production of the theatre group, one of them was a member of. I was obviously
always an ‘outsider’ to such lofty discussions, as I would keep speculating at
the invariable possibility of meeting some one or the other, without any formal
appointments or fix-ups, whenever we reached this place.
.png)
A typical day at the
Indian Coffee House. (Image courtesy: http://www.morningcable.com/entertainment/Travel/33510:a-coffee-over-adda.html)
Only much later did I realise
that, this is what possibly distinguishes my city from any other. The
invariable feeling of being ‘at home’, every time when I land into coffee
house, amidst people who are in reality, so very unknown to me, yet so very
known, makes this place stand out against the anonymity and ambiguity that any
other modern city today is bound to be marked with. The regular exchanges of
smiles and small talks, with relatively unknown people, when one is, at this
place, invariably brings strangers nearer, as new bonds are formed, friendships
made, circles and groups created. Thus, this city dares to remain different in
the face of the globalized uniformity of the world. And it is this very spirit
that I could recognize so very well, when I reached the Presidency College
campus.
The campus was indeed
‘different’. It was not a place for the uniform or the homogenous. It was not a
place which one could gauge from the lens of ‘cholo niyom motey’(“follow the rules”)[2].
The campus was a welcome home for the diverse and the dissimilar. It was a
place for ‘multiple voices’.
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The wall posters in
Presidency College Campus. (Image courtesy: Friend
and photographer, Roshni Chakrabarti)
Hence, during the first few weeks
of my college life, I could hear my own meek voice, which I had forever learnt
to hide behind the garb of inconfidence, being welcomed quite warmly in the
campus. I was not one of those typical ‘know-a-lot’ ‘ Presidencian’ kind, who
had very strong opinions about subject
ranging from Freud to Foucault. In fact, I was not even at-par with others
while talking about the latest of Bengali or English Literature. Yet, I could
feel my unprepared, impromptu, ideas being listened to with great importance.
I remember the evening before our
annual ‘Rabindra-Smarane’ programme at the Derozio-Hall. All were busy writing
posters and decorating the campus for the event next day, and I was roaming around
aimlessly, for I was terrible at handicraft works, and my handwriting was not
of the ‘poster-writing’ type, when a senior-turned-friend called me, and then
persuaded me to try my luck on a few. Invariably, I could not look back at the
posters, when I was finished with them. They looked exceptionally bad, amidst
all others, and all I could do was to sheepishly hide them between the piles of
other well-written ones. The next day, when I reached campus, I was more than
sure to find my works of art, in the litter-bin, when I suddenly found two of
them hanging in either side of the entrance of the hall. I could feel myself
getting red, as I could just not believe that even those posters of mine, had
carved out their place, in the campus. This was probably for the first time, when
I realised that this campus was meant for the prepared, the under-prepared and
perhaps the ‘otherly-prepared’ too.
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The wall posters in
Presidency College Campus. (Image courtesy: Friend
and photographer, Roshni Chakrabarti)
Hence, my campus was never very
perfect. Never spick and span like other college campuses. It never had super
clean walls neither did it strive for one. On the contrary, the college was
painted in the colours of multiplicity. It fostered the freedom to be
different. It fostered the culture of resistance, resistance towards the
cultural uniformity that the globalized world reeks of today. Hence, I remember
the college raging in protest when a coffee shop run by an Italian company
decided to set up a joint, in the campus. The students did resent, and
successfully managed to shut the MNC outlet off for ever.[3]
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The wall graffiti-es
in Presidency College Campus.
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A file picture of
the Portico at the Presidency College Campus
This culture of Presidency, as I
witnessed it, seems to be at a perfect harmony with that of the cultural
predecessors of this institution. This college bears the illustrious history of
the Young India Movement, of the Bengal Renaissance, of the Indian Freedom
struggle, and even of the glorious students’ movement of the 60s. It was from
this institute that the famous 19th century Western rationalist thinker, Henry
Louis Vivian Derozio, started his ‘Young Bengal movement’ for which he was
marginalized by the Hindu orthodox section and was ultimately forced to resign.
Myths even suggest that it was in the stairs of the ‘main building’ of this
very campus that Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose had slapped one of his British
professor, for calling Indians as ‘barbarians’. Even during the Naxalite movement
in the 6os, the college lawns used to be a favourite meeting ground for
students of Kolkata and the neighbouring areas, and as stories suggest, the
campus was indeed the hotbed of this movement.
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The Main building
staircase. (Image courtesy: Friend
and photographer, Arijita Mukherjee)
This college thus has always
encouraged free thinking among its students from its very inception and here
lies its culture of resistance. Today, when the Indian youth is being
tremendously pressurized to be depoliticized, by being captured into the
vicious cycle of commercialization, the students in this college: fight back by
trying to carve out an ‘independent’ political space as against the culture of
mainstream political slugfest. Presidency College, thus, still stands at its
place resonating the culture of resistance, as it continues to be the witness
of the freshness and vitality of youth.
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The spirit Of
Presidency College. (Image courtesy: Friend
and photographer, Roshni Chakrabarti)
[1]
College Street Coffee House is a cafe located opposite the Presidency College on College Street, Kolkata. It has been for a long time a regular
hangout and a renowned meeting place (adda) for intellectuals and student.The history of the Coffee House at
College Street can be traced to Albert Hall, which was founded in April 1876. Later, the Coffee Board decided to
start a coffee joint from the Albert Hall in 1942. Notable citizens were
frequent visitors to the place. In 1947, the Central Government changed the
name of the place to "Coffee House”.
[2]
A song from Rabindranath Tagore’s dance drama, “Tasher
Desh” written in the year 1933. Dedicated to Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose, it takes
a satirical look at tyranny and regimentation and celebrates freedom of speech,
thought and expression.
[3] http://www.telegraphindia.com/1121011/jsp/calcutta/story_16077769.jsp#.VDo1AfmaVfB
[3] http://www.telegraphindia.com/1121011/jsp/calcutta/story_16077769.jsp#.VDo1AfmaVfB
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