The Kinky Mahatma and the prickly Indians

We Indians are a rather prickly lot when it comes any writings on the private lives of our national icons – especially if it is by foreign authors. It is telling that, Indian writers generally steer clear of such “taboo” topics (barring a few like Sudhir Kakar) preferring not to court controversy and brick-bats. Western societies are far less touchy on such matters. You may call it chauvinistic hypocrisy or traits of a schizophrenic national character. It is common knowledge that many of our politicians lead rather colourful (nay,sleazy) lives, but our journos maintain a complicit silence over such stories – which you get to hear in the media cocktail circuit (with the rare exception of some toothless octogenerians like N. D. Tiwari and that too because the matter came into public domain due to a paternity suit filed by an alleged off-spring and his romps at the Hyderabad Raj Bhavan). JFK to Berlusconi

Yet, when it comes to salacious gossip about the sex lives of politicians of other countries – be it a Sarkozy, Berlusconi or serial scandals of British parliamentarians – we gleefully lap it all up and give them prime column space in our newspapers. Stories abound about the numerous love affairs of JFK but we get uptight at the mention of the Nehru-Edwina affair. A biography of Ambdkar that, is given a quiet burial because it mentioned his girl-friends.We fill our pages with pictures and stories of Prince William and his Kate - but never talk about our own Prince-in-waiting's Spanish girl-friend. Curiously, we apply different standards even for our neighbours in the sub-continent. After Shahbaz Bhatti – the liberal Governor of Pakistan’s Punjab province – was assassinated recently, a leading magazine carried a story about his playboy past – including details of his love child with a yesteryear diva of Indian media – now a significant other of a well-know industrialist. Perhaps, there was some professional envy at play there. So – every once in a few years when there is a new book on Gandhi that contains some references to his sexuality (something Gandhi had himself dwelt at some length in his Autobiography – My Experiments with Truth ) there is predictable public outrage followed by demand for banning of the book that finally whittles down to cynical dismissal as a cheap ‘publicity stunt’. The latest being the biography written by the Pulitzer winning former editor of New York Times – Joseph Lelyveld (Great Soul: Mahatma Gandhi and His Struggle with India). In what is by all accounts a very well researched biography – what has made head-lines are some passing quotations from letters written by Gandhi to his proclaimed “soulmate” Hermann Kallenbach, which has strong hints of his homosexual tendencies. “Your portrait (the only one) stands on my mantelpiece in my bedroom. The mantelpiece is opposite my bed…..how completely you have taken possession of my body. This is slavery with vengeance”, he wrote to Kallenbach, a wealthy bachelor of who later donated large parts of his considerable fortunes to Gandhi and remained his “follower” for life. Such is the extent of our blind worship that – we unquestioningly accept Gandhi’s somewhat specious explanation of why he chose to sleep naked with nubile young female companions. Boudi Boudoir

We are equally reticent about the love lives of our celebrities in the world of arts, film and literature. Stories abound about of the scores of muses (read, lovers) Tagore had in his long lifetime starting at a very young age with his sister-in-law (legitimizing the “boudi boudoir” tradition among Bongs) - but none of that is documented. Satyajit Ray’s affair with the heroine of some of his early masterpieces came to light after his death – when the lady in question decided to speak up. But, it was allowed to die down and we were happy to believe his wife’s version that apart from that one instance of straying (which she magnanimously condones as an error of judgement) he never looked outside of his marriage – though, some knowledgeable persons have their own casting couch theories. Sudhir Kakar, Jeffrey Kripal and some other psychologists have espoused controversial theories about Sri Ramakrishna’s sexuality, which have met with rightful condemnation from the “believers” (including yours truly).

Sex(uality) maketh a man

All this is not about vicarious voyeurism. What we fail to recognize is that, a person’s sexuality is a very important part in his evolution. You cannot fathom a great person in totality without understanding his sexuality. Though I wouldn’t go as far as saying ‘sex maketh a man’ (in more senses than one) – it certainly forms the essence of his personality. Even as Lelyveld himself argues "it is an effort of imagination that we should at least attempt" in our trying to understand what Gandhi aspired through his 'experiments'(he calls it a form of 'sexlessness' rather than bi-sexualism - or what is referred to as 'flexi-sexualism nowadays). We tend to easily deify our heroes and like to see them only in white. But, it is the shades of black and grey that truly defines them. Certainly – a Nityananda is no Gandhi – but I wonder what would have been the public reaction to similar “experiments” conducted – be it within the confines of a commune – in the this day and age - with our spycams and 'sting' operations.

Raj Redux

Part I - From British Raj to Cadre Raj


Which is the best Club in India? You’d instinctively think that it must be one of those venerable institutions of Calcutta – once, allegedly, regarded as the second city of the Empire. And, being a Bengali (a ‘pseudo Bong’ - nevertheless) you’d expect me to say that too, if nothing - simply out of regional chauvinism. But, my vote would go elsewhere.

True the Bengal Club – once the residence of Lord Macaulay (click here to read the heritage of the Club) - still retains an imperial air. Though age and decline in fortunes are clearly discernable there is something very sublime and charming about it . The corridors are often adorned with Trade Union posters blending the past and the present beautifully – a testimony to the changing times, the transition from British Raj to Marxist Cadre Raj. And, on a good day - especially if you are with Ram Ray ( an acknowledged gourmand turned gourmet and the Chairman of the club's F & B Committee)– no club can beat their food (just as Ram’s friend Shobu Banerjee would say of the service at Calcutta Club on the ‘blue-moon’ night of their Foundation Day dinner). The ‘Abdars’ pamper you with their gentle fawning. The recent addition of facilities such as the health club and a pub has injected some new vibrancy and, I hope, would contribute to its long-term financial stability too (In the 70s, the Club had to sell off part of its prime property at the Chowringhee end, where a monstrous commercial high-rise came up, to avert a financial crisis) -though, I for one would have preferred to see more of “restoration” rather than “renovation” of such a grand heritage property. But, at times, one does wonder if it's in danger of becoming a “Calcutta Club – Mark II” , to appropriate another Aveek Sarkar quip.

the last Bastion of Bhadraloks

Well no one can question the aristocratic (“bonedi”) antecedents of The Calcutta Club ( click here ) – so what if it strikes you as a societal rendition of Ray’s Jalsaghar (click here for synposis and critique)– an extension of the “baithak khana” of a North Calcutta zamindar residence (read “Rajbaris), which had obviously seen better days. The bearers running after you to the car – to collect their tips – kind of completes the picture. Swapan Dasgupta wrote a wonderful piece in a Mumbai paper (click here to read full article) couple of years back – on what is probably the last surviving bastion of the “bhadralok” Bengalis (though, I think it is grossly unfair to compare its membership profile with that of the Mohun Bagan Club {click here} - another much loved institution of the North Calcutta 'ghotis').

(Flag hoisting ceremony at The Calcutta Club on Independence day)

This Club too has seen a wave of “renovation” ( euphemistically called - 'face-lift') over the last couple of years as it celebrated its centenary. But, it was more like fixing a “pace-maker” on a septuagenarian (that’s the modal age of members – almost half of whom are, incidentally, doctors and surgeons with lawyers forming another large chunk) not an open-heart surgery. But, if Bengal Club is a club with a soul, then Calcutta Club is definitely a club with a heart - as is evident in the frenetic electioneering every July. Sometimes, I think the Club exists only for the Annual Elections – as it provides vicarious gratification to the seeds of political aspirations lying dormant at a sub-conscious level in every true Bengali. That’s why it’s often said that; there hasn’t been a Bengali President of the country (Pranab Mukherjee and Somnath Chatterjee came precariously close to busting this theory) – because the Bengalis ambition ends with becoming the President of Calcutta Club. But, all is forgiven and nothing else matters when on a wintry evening - sitting on the verandah – you dig into a diced chicken cutlet while savoruing a pot of fine Darjeeling, brewed just right.

a bar with a cricket field

The CCFC ( The Calcutta Cricket & Fotball Club, click here for history) , my personal favourite, was great fun as long as long as it stayed true to its original charter of being “a Bar with a Cricket Field attached”. But, it was on the verge of losing its 200 year old mandate when the reins passed from the “chai-wallahs” to the new “corporate” honchos and business barons – who converted the banquet hall on the first floor (witness to many a ball and brawl over the years) to a restaurant and enclosed the front terrace to make a post-colonial glass paneled bar overlooking the grounds. But, the old bar downstairs is still the best in town and my friend Ansar – the head bar tender – proudly claims, his Bloody Mary and Fresh Lime Soda are “international famous”(sic). And certainly it is the most youthful, sporty and happy club in the city.

The Tolly’s ( to read about the Tollygunge Club click here) pride is, of course, the Golf Course with its pack of tame jackals. But the food remains indifferent and at night the club takes a near deserted look, except on evenings when there is a reception at the ‘Far Pavilion’ regularly let out for weddings and other social functions. It’s the current favourite of the new Corporate set and rightfully so – with the best sports facilities in the city. No wonder it is the most professionally managed club in the city – with a CEO who is actually allowed to function by the elected committee members (the President decided by consensus). But, still it would not get my top vote.

Part II - A Journey Down South

The degeneration of the clubs of Calcutta can be naturally linked to its altered economic and commercial status of the city , after the demise of the Merchant Houses and the exodus of large multi-national companies through the 70s and 80s. But, economic affluence alone can’t make a club great – as one would easily realize entering the haloed precincts of the Delhi Gymkhana, once a quintessential Raj establishment. The unseemly fracas over the Presidential elections last year, which was covered in the main-stream dailies (click here for full story) with a repeat of sorts again this time around (click here ) proves the point.

Sarkar(i) Raj

A stronghold of bureaucrats and service officers – I remember the time when the club’s Bars were sealed after an Excise raid engineered by a CBEC Member who had lost the elections. (It was a fact that, they hadn’t renewed the Bar License for over 10 years – perhaps, not feeling the need to do so with all of Delhi’s bureaucratic top brass being members). On another occasion – in a Ghulam Ali concert the audience continued to chomp kebabs and guzzle their drink – with the maestro singing away like a hired performer in a shaadi. Those of us, who waited till the end of the programme , found that there was no food left and had to head out for Pandara Road to grab some dinner.

(But, I am sure it’s any day better than the Orai Club - in the boondocks of Uttar Pradesh. A colleague, who was posted there as Manager of a new HLL unit, was asked on applying for Membership - if he possessed a gun-license. Apparently, it was unsafe to enter the club in the evenings without a gun).

The Delhi Golf Club remains the capital’s only saving grace.

Capitalists at their best

(Bombay Gym - Photo Archive)

Bombay’s obsession with pace is inimical to the development of a true club culture, which has to be, by definition, slow and unhurried. The Bombay, Gym (click here for history), the Cricket Club of India (CCI) the Willingdon are all great clubs with fantastic properties at prime locations – but are too busy and crowded for my liking. At the CCI especially – the restaurants (the quality of food and service will match any first-rate eatery or 5 Star in town) are so packed and loud they don’t feel like a club at all. But, none can match them in overall upkeep and the range of facilities, all smacking of Mumbai’s hallmark efficiency.

(the majestic facade of the Royal Bombay Yacht Club)

The only club with a leisurely - and yet not totally laid-back - culture, that retains much of its pristine ambience – is the Yacht Club ( click here for history) and I try to get there as often as I can.

Bangalore has become too cosmopolitan to have a homogenous club culture of its own. At the Bangalore Club, therefore, there is no clear dominant set. Apart from the city’s classy old Kannadiga gentry, there are the planters from Coorg and Chikmagalur, the moneyed (but highly refined) Magaloreans and, of course, the ubiquitous Malyalis and the affluent Syrian Christian community. Then there are the new Czars and Czarinas of IT / Bio-tech; and the late migrants from all over the country – who have built their post-retirement nest in this ‘Garden City’. All told – the Club, despite its very good facilities (but passable food) has a somewhat mixed character.


Up in the Hills


The clubs in the Hill-Stations – conceived primarily as holiday destinations or watering holes for the local planters – fall in a different category altogether, quite distinct from their city-bred cousins. Of them, the 127 year old, The Club at Mahabaleshwar (click here for more) has best preserved its heritage and an aura of history – while making the necessary concessions for modern-day comforts and amenities. It is everything a good club ought to be (except that – for some odd reason - it no longer has a bar). The Kasauli Club – is a quaint little gem tucked away in the Himalayan foot-hills on the way to Shimla. Being a Cantonment and an Air-force station, both Kasauli and the club has remained largely untouched by marauding crowds from Delhi, Chandigarh and the plains of Punjab.

In the Nilgiris, The High-Range Club in Munnar, once an almost exclusive domain of Tata Tea executives, ranks high. My personal favourite is the Wellington Club in upper Coonoor. Sitting outside the cottage, feet up with a book and a glass of gin on the side – occasionally staring across the lush green golf course is the stuff my ideal holidays are made of. But, it’s perhaps only appropriate that the real Queen of the Hill-Clubs
should be located in ‘Queen of Hill Stations’. The Ootacamund Club in Ooty defies comparison in its grandeur and elegance.

familiar but not obtrusive & baked crabs

That brings me to my last stop – the Madras Club in Chennai. It has kept up with the times without losing its class or character. The staff are efficient and courteous without being, in the least, obsequious.

To me a club is not just a place to meet friends, drink swim and, now also gym, – but it’s meant to transport you to a mental ‘space’ somewhere between home and work. It’s a state of mind, which makes that fine difference between being in one’s living room, a bar or a restaurant. It’s a place where you feel at home – without being home. So it’s the attitude of the members – familiar but not obtrusive – which defines the culture of a club. The members of the Madras Club have an understated and quiet dignity, which I find most impressive.

They make a mean and cheesy baked-crab - the best I have had, which would give even the Bengal Club stiff competition. Try it when you are in Chennai next time – even at the risk of your cholesterol shooting up by several points. You wont regret it - I guarantee.

Lady Canning lives in Japan

Last week on my way to KL again, I picked up Kunal Basu's - "The Japanese Wife" at the Mumbai Airport Crossword. Had read about the book earlier - but didn't know that Aparna Sen was making a movie out of it. The Indian edition is clearly timed for the release of the film. The jacket - well designed in matt yellow and orange with muted Japanese floral prints and tinted silhouettes of the actors (Rahul Bose and the shaven-headed Japanese woman ) has an understated western touch, which I fell for despite the old adage about not judging a book by its cover. It's a collection of short stories or short-fictions as the publishers prefers to call them.


The blurb bills it as a "surreal love story" and I felt that "surrealistic" quality in the first page itself. Starting to read it on the plane - I was at once overcome by a sense of deja-vu !! The story was set in a village - Shonai - on the periphery of the Sunderbans ,across Canning, by the bank of the Matla river - a part of Bengal to which many Calcutta bred Bongs like this one, I have no qualms in admitting, came to be introduced only recently by Amitava Ghosh's - The Hungry Tide. And, it seemed a little uncanny that, I had also bought a copy of the latter at the airport for a friend in KL, who wanted it after reading Ghosh's - Glass Palace (set partly in Malayasia ) which she liked.

It's a story of a school teacher in Shonai, who has been in a long-distance marriage for over 20 years with a pen-friend in Japan, without ever having met her in person. On first reading it appeared bizarre . The plot lacked credibility on several counts - not the least of which, even at the risk of sounding disgustingly class prejudiced like Aveek Sarkar, I would say, was the choice of the locale. 'Bhadraloks' of South Calcutta generally associate Canning with fish-sellers in Gariahat market and house-hold helps (mostly Bangladeshi migrants ) who come from that area. Even Ghosh's Hungry Tide didn't do much to redeem that image of this economically deprived and depressed part of West Bengal known as South 24 Parganas . So, it's difficult to imagine an "anker - mastermoshai" ( mathematics school teacher) from Shonai (granted, he went to college in Calcutta - that's when he developed a pen-friendship with this Japanese girl whom he discovering in a magazine, exchanged vows and consummated a 'mail-order' marriage in no time ) could maintain this strange telescopic marital relationship in full view of his villager community - both young and old - and with the explicit indulgence of his widowed aunt, who affectionately calls her "Bou-Ma". His rather urbane sounding name - Snehamoy Chakrabarti - doesn't help matters either.

And a lay reader like your lonely blogger, who has very stereotypical ideas of Japanese society and culture - from books and films not having ever visited that country - is left totally flummoxed by the character of Miyaja - the Japanese wife. We are told very little about her except that, she lives in a city on the banks of the Nakanokuchi river , writes letters in different coloured inks reflecting her changing moods and state of mind, sends him exotic gifts like kites, Hokusai prints and mountain cherries ( don't know if they arrived in refrigerated containers !!) and posts her "will" in a sealed envelope to be opened only after her death. There isn't as much of a hint about her personal situation or background - all of which are left to challenge our underdeveloped imagination.

May be it was the setting that introduced a bias in my mind. Sub-consciously, perhaps, I was expecting to see traces of The Hungry Tide, like the similarities one would have inevitably found in, say a Ray and Ritwik's treatment of comparable locational situations in rural Bengal ( I wonder how a Subodh or Santosh Ghosh would have handled such a subject). But, he is no Ghosh or a Jhumpa either. Shonai is just the name of a village in his story - it could well have been Siliguri, Sitamari or Saharanpur. I thought his style lacked polish ( considering he is an Oxford Don ), the cadence uneven, the characters sketchy and the development of the plot half-baked and disjointed.

I liked the opening tho' - including the soon-going-to be famous line : "She sent him kites", which opened up a whole world of possibilities. The description of how the box of kites was carried on various modes of transport from Canning to Shonai across the Matla made amusing reading. And, the story did come alive for once in the sequence of the 'kite - fight' in the village. But after soaring to great heights, like the giant Nagasaki kite, it too went "Bhookata" in mid-air. The parallel plot of the young widow and the child moving into the house had tremendous dramatic potential - which wasn't allowed to climax. The ending - with its deliberate twist - was the best part. And, probably there begins his story.

It is only after you put down the book - does it really begin to work on you.- almost subliminally. Gradually the pencil strokes become visible, the outlines emerge , the images get form and the pictures are filled with colour. And, you are suddenly able to read - what a reviewer called - "the sub-texts of yearnings, separations, loss and secret lives" that lie somewhere deep within all of us. That's where it begins to strike a chord. Someone once described writing as nothing but an exercise in telepathy. Is this also a telepathy of sorts ?

Is Basu going to be the next Indian writing wonder ? I'm not so sure about that. But, he definitely leaves you longing for something more. Let's see how Aparna creates magic with her Miyaja.

( PS: As those who have read Ghosh's Hungry Tide would know - the port of Canning was named after Lady Canning, as was the popular Bengali Sweet - "Lady-kini" )

Memories at Random and Often Blemished

At last, thanks to Sudha Murty, the Ghoses Blogspot is getting interactive. The postings on the Ms of Infy have drawn sharp response from the non-millionaire wives' club. The V-s have written from Chicago : "Murthy's toilet cleaning habits have been oft quoted in press and frankly just serve as exercises in PR. As for me, I would rather go for the goblets of wine and morsels of whatever-you-call-it …. ". Mrs D from Ruislip, UK says - All this talk about put-on austerity makes me nauseate. But, the most spirited rejoinder came from the Chennai-wasi Amma . Here it goes unabridged and undiluted - complete with Molagu and Puli ( Pepper & Tamarind in Tamil ) to make a perfect Rasam:

"I was really curious to know what your friend found "inspiring"abt her life. I've always found them to be rather pretentious & their holier than thou attitude sickening. SM claims to run her household on 8K a month. Wonder how she manages to fit in the son's education into it-or am I not understanding the meaning of the word "budget". NM's "simple" façade obviously cloaks a shrewd & calculating brain. The media hype he manages to create is a lesson in itself for any aspirant seeking to be in the PR biz. It never ceases to amuse me that any article on him begins with the ubiquitous statement that he is media shy. For somebody who claims to be media shy, not a day goes by where there is not a major story on him & this is true of the national/Intl press, not just the local one. Also, full marks to him for successfully masking the fact that Infy is still a Co which still gets 80% of its revenues from body-shopping. The manner in which he orchestrates the media is something his peer Premji can learn from. Guess the parallel between SG & NM( vis a vis vision & zero capital )also drives home the point that while NM's risk-taking has catapulted him into the big league, maybe SG's caution finds him plateauing in Kats".

It probably just goes to show that , what glitters usually turns out to be either brass or copper and even if it is the 'real thing' has a generous dose of alloy mixed in it. This was once remarked about Meryl Streep - who for all her appearance of professionalism personified is supposed to be a savvy operator, when it comes to bagging the best roles.

Talking of Films, Anjalika ( the youngest of Sharma sisters )'s graduation film - 'Meena Jha' - has won the National Award (Rajat Kamal ) for the best debut and is getting rave reviews in the festival circuit. She is one of the first batch of students to come out of the Satyajit Ray Film & Television Institute ( SRFTI ), Calcutta. S.. - who played something of an internet postman in arranging the finance for the film - is upset that, his name doesn't appear in the 'credits' . He claims that, normally it is the "Producer" who gets the award and all the accompanying photo-opportunities ( especially, if it is a woman director ) and he, with his growing pot-belly and receding hair-line, would have perfectly fitted the bill of a sleazy 'financier' ( of the 'Bharat-bhai' kind ). As a minor concession, Anj has condescended to let him make a mention of it in the Blog.

We haven't seen the film yet - but, are quite impressed by the quotes attributed to the director. Didn't realise Mala's little kid sister has grown up so much - not just to make an award-winning film but to speak with such maturity. The reviewer in the Express writes: "Ayesha rides away to an escapist world …. Leaving everyone with a smile. With Meena Jha, we see our silly selves…. in every frame. Stories of memories, friendships and expressions… in a confusing world." Sounds bit like our Blogspot - or at least what we intended it to be in some sense - "memories at random and, often, blemished".

Jaya started her new school from today. After the trouble at Rupy's last month, we decided to play it safe and shift her to the Kendriya Vidyalaya at the Embassy. Contrary to our apprehensions, Jaya took the change quite easily in her stride. S.. recalled what a traumatic time he had when he moved from South Point to Don Bosco at the age of 10. It took him weeks to settle down. The next generation it would seem are much more practical about such things. Coming to think of it - this is Jaya's 5th change of school before she reached even Class 2. Guess she has little options - having been tagged onto such bohemian parents - or, that's what her grand-parents would say ( irresponsible, is the word they are more likely to use ).

Curfew, Ablutions and Sundry Rumours

Another old friend informs from Delhi, the banner headline in the ABP ( Ananda Bazar Patrika ) on Sunday read, "Jato Kando Shei Kathmandutei", an obvious play on the title of the Feluda tale by Satyajit Ray( Shall write about Ray's Rana connections some other day ) !

Three Kings in 4 days - that's quite a record. N.. is finally convinced that, her husband moves ahead of times. The curfew he had predicted on Saturday finally happened this ( Monday ) afternoon (Mercifully this time he missed the mark by just a couple of days - it's usually by a few centuries ). The "transition management" didn't quite work - in fact, in hindsight it might appear that the interregnum gave people more time to ruminate on the "conspiracy theory". Last evening, as Star News reported a seething build-up of tension , we thought this time round they were doing a "Zee" (i .e. over-sensationalising ) - notwithstanding the isolated incidents and burning of Indian newspapers in New Road. So when, The Nepalese Ambassador to India, Dr Bhek Thapa, appealed to the Indian Media to allow them "space" to come to terms with the tragedy - we wholly empathised with the feelings. If anything - the tragedy brought home the essentially traditional character of this society, which is often masked under a veneer of modernity. Though much of the expression of grief - the shaving of heads, the tearful participation in the funeral procession could have been prompted by group instincts, I know of many who did it genuinely on their own volition.
But, this morning - as the news of the death of the young Prince ( designated as King ) spread and the coronation was announced the pent-up emotions simply spilled over onto the streets. And, almost before we realised the curfew had already been declared by the afternoon. The cremation ceremony of the young King took even lesser time than that of his parents, as there was no lengthy procession through the city. It was all over by about 8 'O clock in the evening - this time marked by the presence of even fewer people, mostly from the Army , Ministers and Palace Officials. The Regent now appointed the new King addressed the Nation over Television and the Radio at 9. The announcement of an enquiry commission - comprising the Chief Justice, the Speaker of the Parliament and Leader of the Opposition, which would submit its report within the next 3 days, was a smart tactical move - even though some, like the Nepalese Correspondent of BBC, doubted what would come out of it. Leaders of different political parties and the Prime Minister came on air appealing to the people to restore calm in these difficult times.
Today was again a day of rumours. The news black-out is probably contributing to it. By the evening even Star and Zee News were taken off the air. Only the BBC and CNN remain. The last one to do the rounds is that the city water-supply has been poisoned. I guess we shall only get to know tomorrow morning. S.. has left strict instructions that, his bed-tea should be prepared only with bottled mineral water. Otherwise, it's a terrible thought of having to be carried away with a feeling of 'incomplete evacuation' of the bowels - which might interfere with the passage of the soul from the body, he firmly believes. ( That's if you didn't know about a good Bengali's obsession with his morning ablution ).