P.G. Wodehouse, an Englishman who eventually settled in America, wrote novels set in a charming, idealized version of England—a place that, while fictional, captures a timeless allure. His stories are peopled with endearing characters: affluent young men with time and money to spare, formidable aunts, eccentric American millionaires, temperamental French chefs, and the ever-resourceful Jeeves, alongside the delightful The Empress of Blandings, the apple of the eye of absent-minded Lord Emsworth.
At first glance, Wodehouse’s plots might seem repetitive. However, much like Bach’s intricate counterpoints and fugues or the variations in a jazz improvisation or Carnatic Kalpana swaras, Wodehouse’s stories are masterful variations on simple themes. Their charm lies in their subtlety and simplicity, creating a captivating experience that speaks to readers across different backgrounds.
How do his novels set in 1920s English country houses resonate universally? Let’s explore the reasons behind their widespread appeal.
Most of us harbor a certain resentment towards authority. Whether dealing with bossy relatives, stern headmasters, or demanding bosses, we often yearn for the chance to rebel against those who impose their will upon us. Wodehouse’s humor, which targets pompous magistrates, domineering aunts, and cigar-smoking tycoons, provides a delightful escape. His satirical treatment of such figures allows us to revel in their ridiculousness and momentarily escape the constraints of authority.
The Drones Club members, epitomized by the charmingly clueless Bertie Wooster, live lives of leisure—an existence many of us can only dream of. While we may outwardly dismiss the idle rich, there’s often a hidden envy for their carefree existence, so different from our own routines. Although our work may have its moments of interest, it often involves mundane tasks and repetitive duties.
Wodehouse’s protagonists are not heroic supermen but rather ordinary young men with sunny dispositions. Unlike the Casanova on steroids James Bond or the suave Saint, his characters are more relatable: shy eccentrics like Gussie Fink-Nottle, small-time fixers like Ukridge, and domineering domestic servants like McAllister. In my own life, I have encountered people reminiscent of these characters, yet I have never met anyone resembling a James Bond. Wodehouse’s characters, though exaggerated, embody qualities found universally.
Occasional mavericks like Piccadilly Jim or the irrepressible Psmith add to the charm of Wodehouse’s world. Who can resist Psmith’s nonchalant umbrella appropriation on a rainy day? These mildly caricatured individuals are both believable and endearing, whether in Knightsbridge or Kolkata.
Finally, Wodehouse’s prose is irresistible. His ability to seamlessly integrate quotes from Latin and Greek classics, the Bible, and Shakespeare into whimsical situations demonstrates his linguistic brilliance. His writing flows with a natural, effortless grace reminiscent of Beethoven’s serene and evocative second movement of the Pastoral Symphony.
As someone from Coimbatore, a small city in southern India, I first encountered Wodehouse’s novels in my teens, beginning with Piccadilly Jim. The charm and wit of his writing enchanted me then, and seventy years later, my admiration remains as strong as ever.
Wodehouse’s work transcends borders and cultures—he belongs to the world.
(Captain Mohan Ram, ex Naval designer, eventually moved to the automobile industry where, if one may hazard a guess, he might have been designing some amphibian vehicles. His career trajectory followed the Peter’s Principle. He rose to senior positions, until finally retiring recently at the age of eighty four. He is currently cooling his heels, writing inane posts on Facebook.
His permission to reproduce this piece here is gratefully acknowledged.)
Oh, the eternal conundrum of a wannabe raconteur! How to entice the dear reader with a ripping yarn, without getting bogged down in the quagmire of tedious explanations? I, for one, have frequently found myself in this very predicament, my literary endeavours stymied by the pesky queries that insist on popping up every once in a while, much like the kind of obnoxious queries raised by Aunt Myrtle of The Mating Season fame at a family gathering.
“Where, oh where, do I begin?” I cry, throwing up my hands in despair, as the words “It was a dark and stormy night” wither and die on my lips. For, you see, dear reader, I am not one of those dashed clever fellows who can effortlessly spin a tale, replete with vivid descriptions and witty asides. No, I am but a humble wordsmith, prone to getting tangled in the underbrush of my own verbosity.
Take, for instance, this endeavour of mine to regale you with the tale of our merry jaunt to Bangriposhi, a picturesque hamlet nestled in the eastern reaches of India, in the charming state of Odisha. I began, with all the confidence of a debutante at her first ball, “It was at the crack of dawn that we set forth on our journey to Bangriposhi…” only to be met with a chorus of “Wait, what’s the name of the place?” and “Why on earth did you go there?” and “Were you alone?” and so on, ad infinitum.
I confess, dear reader, that I was soon reduced to a state of utter exhaustion, my responses growing more and more feeble, like the dog Bottles of Blandings and Elsewhere fame, after it has been subjected to an excessive number of baths. “Well, you see, it was like this… we were in couples, and didn’t have any kids, so… er… yes, I suppose we did enjoy the scenery…” Ugh, the very thought of it makes me shudder!
But fear not, dear reader, for I have since sought the counsel of a wise and venerable sage, who has imparted upon me the ancient secrets of storytelling. And thus, with a renewed sense of purpose, let me share with you with the tale of our Bangriposhi adventure, sans the tedious interruptions.
The halcyon days of Bangriposhi, where the scenic beauty unfolded like a tantalising tapestry, precisely as one would expect. A diminutive jungle, a cosy cottage, and a caretaker-cum-chauffeur, along with his better half, all combining to create an ambience reminiscent of the cinematic masterpiece, “Days and Nights of the Forest.” Our merry band of five families, sans the tiny terrors, converged upon this idyllic setting, our camaraderie forged in the crucible of our apartment complex in the bustling metropolis we infest. And yet, I confess, I felt as out of place as a toupee on a turtle’s head. The crowd, you see, was not exactly my cup of tea. Initially, I attributed this unease to my introverted nature, which, I feared, was not quite in harmony with the group’s collective psyche.
But, as I delved deeper into the mystery of my discomfort, I discovered that the root of the problem lay not with the group, but with my trusty sidekick, my wife. It was as if Bertie Wooster, sans Jeeves, had embarked on an adventure with the formidable Aunt Agatha in tow. Now, before you label me a bounder for making such a statement, permit me to explain. I have conducted an exhaustive study of my own psyche (well, as exhaustive as one can be when sipping tea and nibbling on biscuits) and discovered that, on occasion, I have mingled with groups with the élan of a seasoned socialite. So, what was the source of my trepidation this time around?
The answer, my friends, lay in the confidence-sapping presence of my wife, who, I dare say, is otherwise an epitome of virtue and rectitude. You see, in days of yore, my confidence was fuelled by those devilish cigarettes, but with my wife by my side, even the thought of those white sticks with filters at the end was tantamount to committing a mortal sin. I felt like Ignatius Mulliner, craving a smoke, but acutely conscious of the weight of my self-esteem, lest I incur the displeasure of my better half, which might precipitate a domestic turbulence of epic proportions.
In short, I was a man torn asunder by the conflicting desires of his heart and the stern dictates of his conscience, all the while attempting to navigate the treacherous waters of matrimonial bliss. Ah, the trials and tribulations of being a married man!
Many of you may agree with me when I say that maintaining a stiff upper lip in the face of impending lunacy is something that could test the resilience of even those who are made of sterner stuff! I was, in a word, a bit of a mess, rather like Ignatius, that talented but temperamentally-challenged nephew of Mr. Mulliner. It seemed that with each tick of the clock, my grip on sanity was slipping, much like a chap trying to cling on to a greased pig at the village fair. But, by Jove, I was determined not to let the good people around me catch on to my internal turmoil. No, no, I played it cool, a regular mask of tranquillity, all the while thinking, “Good fellow, you’re one step away from being carted off to the loony bin!” If any of the group members had indeed caught onto the kind of inner torment I was experiencing, services of someone configured along the lines of Sir Roderick Glossop would surely have been sought.
And, I must confess, it’s a dashed difficult thing to do, this keeping-a-stiff-upper-lip business. I daresay, that’s why the bachelor chaps always seem so carefree – they can let their hair down, as it were, and express themselves without fear of being thought a bit…well, dotty. Alas, I felt like Horatio, constantly on the lookout for signs of my own Hamlet-esque madness bursting forth from its hiding place.
As a result, the kindly hospitality of our homestay hosts was rather lost on me. I’m afraid I responded to their warm overtures with all the enthusiasm of a sleepy sloth, muttering the occasional “thanks” and “so kind of you” in a tone that suggested I’d rather be undergoing a root canal without anaesthesia. In short, I was about as far from being my natural self as a fish is from flying. But, by George, I managed to keep the old mask in place, even if it was held together with nothing more than a few threads of sanity and a healthy dose of British pluck!
The dashed awkwardness of it all! I’m afraid I’ve made a thorough ass of myself by presenting myself in this tranquil and inviting setting, looking for all the world like a chap who has the look of one who had drunk the cup of life and found a dead beetle at the bottom. My companions, no doubt, had been hoping to indulge in a spot of idle chatter or a hearty guffaw or two, but instead, they were stuck with a fellow who resembled a fugitive from a particularly dismal funeral procession. I daresay, they must be thinking, “Good heavens, what’s got into this blighter? Has he been taking elocution lessons from a dyspeptic owl?” Ah, the horror! The shame! I might as well have worn a T-shirt proclaiming, “I’m a killjoy, avoid me at all costs!”
As luck would have it, on a rainy day when any outdoor expedition was ruled out, the group decided to play Antakshari, a game based on songs. Amidst the dampness all around, some inner clouds of despair also gathered, leading to a veritable tempest of tune-less-ness. I, a vocal virtuoso of the most dubious sort, found myself floundering in the depths of Antakshari despair. My usually trust-worthy memory, capable of recalling the most obscure ditties with the precision of a Swiss watch, had apparently gone on a spot of holiday, leaving me high and dry, like a chap who’s misplaced his favourite umbrella on a drizzly day. The lyrics, those pesky little devils, seemed to vanish into thin air, rather like Dr. Watson’s hasty estimate of James Mortimer’s age, which, if I recall rightly, went up in smoke the moment the good doctor cast his eye on the fellow in person.
As I stumbled from one musical misstep to the next, I felt my Superman cape fluttering to the ground, leaving me exposed, a mere mortal, stripped of my melodic mojo. It was a bit like Napoleon’s ill-fated Waterloo campaign, only instead of cannons and cavalry, I was facing a barrage of bemused glances and stifled giggles from my opponents. The ‘War of Songs’, that most noble of pursuits, had reduced me to a quivering mass of uncertainty, a chap who couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, let alone emerge victorious in the fray.
The tribulations of a chap on holiday! As the inimitable Bertrand Russell so sagely observed, “The wise man will be as happy as circumstances permit, and if he finds the contemplation of the universe painful beyond a point, he will contemplate something else instead.” Ah, but what happens when the universe, in all its inscrutable wisdom, decides to play a trick or two on one?
On the final day of our jaunt, I found myself in a state of utter despondency, feeling as though I’d lost my own identity in the great vortex of travel. The atmosphere around me had grown as heavy as the infamous London fog, with nary a glimmer of sunshine in sight. It was as if the very clouds themselves were conspiring against me, refusing to yield even a single, solitary yellow gap which would allow a ray of sunshine to creep in and dispel the darkness of my melancholy. And then, like a beacon of hope, I chanced upon Russell’s wise words, reminding me that when the weight of the world becomes too much to bear, one must seek solace in more pleasant pursuits.
For me, that pleasant thought was a nice, long soak in the tub. Ah, bliss! We’d been cooped up in that confounded place for a couple of days, and I’d already indulged in a pre-trip scrub at home, but now, I was determined to treat myself to a good, old-fashioned bath. I became as resolute as a bulldog guarding its favourite bone, refusing to budge until I’d had my fill of hot water and soap. Much like Bertie Wooster, you would have found me soaping a meditative torso and even belting out something along the lines of Pale Hands I Loved Beside the Shalimar, if you know what I mean.
Almost all of our scriptures exhort us to introspect and meditate on the state of affairs in one’s life. Being a firm believer, I daresay there is no place other than the bathroom where one could experience this bliss and have an uninterrupted conversation with the universe, thereby giving a boost to one’s Spiritual Quotient.
Alas, my companions, those dear, long-suffering souls, grew anxious at my intransigence, their faces as long as a wet weekend in Brighton. My wife, that paragon of patience, took centre stage, her eyebrows shooting up like a warning flag on a stormy day, signalling to me that I was being, well, a bit of a cad. But I, like Bertie Wooster in his most obstinate moments, chose to ignore her gentle remonstrations, much as he would have disregarded Jeeves’ sage advice on the perils of donning a white mess jacket with brass buttons.
The tension was palpable, the air thick with the weight of my own stubbornness. I can only imagine the trauma I inflicted upon my fellow travellers, who, in their infinite wisdom, chose to support my wife’s sensible entreaties over my own, ahem, principled stance. And yet, at the time, I felt the kind of hollow defeat that plagues a character from R.K. Narayan’s stories—like a weary clerk who, after dodging creditors, losing his lunch money, and missing the last bus, drags himself home only to find the milk curdled and the fan creaking in the sweltering heat.
But fate, in its infinite mercy, intervened, and the caretaker’s wife announced that they were running low on fuel, and hot water was a luxury we could ill afford. With a sigh that was equal parts relief and frustration, I beat a hasty retreat, my dignity bruised.
And so, dear reader, we come to the end of this tale of woe, a chronicle of one man’s valiant struggle to maintain a stiff upper lip in the face of impending lunacy. As I reflect on the trials and tribulations of our Bangriposhi adventure, I am reminded of the wise words of that great sage, G.K. Chesterton: “The only way to be sure of catching a train is to miss it.” Ah, the profound wisdom of those words! For, in the end, it was not the scenic beauty of Bangriposhi, nor the camaraderie of our merry band, that proved the greatest challenge, but rather the internal turmoil of my own mind, aided and abetted by my better half. When everyone took my wife’s side instead of mine, in that moment of extreme insult, I was reminded of the following words by P.G. Wodehouse:
Are wives often like that? Welcoming criticism of the lord and master, I mean?’
‘They are generally open to suggestion from the outside public with regard to the improvement of their husbands, sir.’
Note: Images courtesy of the World Wide Web we have spun around ourselves.
Much like all the mothers on this planet, my mother also thought me intelligent.
However, I suspect I might have become mentally arrested at an early age, dishing out the sort of articles and books which people, not knowing the facts, assume to be the work of a cheerful, if dense, young fellow of about thirty-five.
My readers, God bless their souls, perhaps tell one another that they might do well to lend an ear to what this youngster has to say. Get the aspiring generation’s point of view, and all that. Some of them, unable to contain their enthusiasm, occasionally manage to persuade the authorities to invite me over to their educational institute and share a few words of wisdom.
However, when the day finally dawns, they are in for a rude shock. Contrary to what they imagined, they find a septuagenarian with a stooping back whose bald pate is shining in the overhead lights. When invited, they are aghast at finding him tottering up the stairs to the stage. His face often sports a permanently worried expression, making the onlookers wonder if he happens to be one of the honorary Vice Presidents of the Global Morons’ Association.
A collective gasp of disbelief and disappointment emanates from the audience. Such was indeed the fate of a motley crowd of young ladies on a recent occasion.
Like many authors, I am content to remain in my own bubble of thoughts, ideas and words. Solitude is what I crave.
Public speaking for me is a tortuous experience. I detest the fact that whereas I need to work hard on preparing for a talk, the audience merely needs to troop in, listen to the sagacious wisdom being imparted in a nonchalant manner, often paying more attention to the birds twittering outside the windows of the auditorium. And if the audience were to comprise young ladies who have perfected the art of unnerving the speaker by either staring at the poor fellow, or simply giggling when something serious is being said, you can well imagine the rapidity with which the butterflies inside my abdomen start flapping their wings.
I have had the occasion to study the methods of some of the more popular public speakers. Other than excellent oratorial skills, they possess a quality which is not easy to define. Let me say that they appear to have undergone a crash course in Decision Making Under Uncertainty. They have what I might call the gift of dealing with the Unusual Situation. The staring and giggling technique adopted by my audience, though, queers the pitch.
In the presence of the Unusual, I am rather prone to smile weakly and allow my eyes to protrude. Perhaps, I lack Pluck and Presence. Thus, it proves to be an ordeal which knocks all the stuffing out of me right from the start. I look at the young ladies and find each one staring at me with an unwavering gaze. I blink, then begin picking feebly at my coat sleeve.
Most lectures I get invited to follow a similar blueprint. Somebody gets up and introduces the chairperson and the speaker of the evening. Both amble up the stage. The chairperson on this occasion was built along the lines of Mother Abbess of The Sound of Music fame. She does not croon an invigorating melody like Climb every mountain. Instead, she mumbles a few words designed to cheer up the speaker, to allay his anxiety as to whether the audience is carrying any supplies of rotten eggs, potatoes, and tomatoes which may come in handy in case they do not receive his words of wisdom in the right spirit.
She concludes by making a few sympathetic observations about the subject at hand. Later, while the talk is being delivered, she can be seen making brief notes on a scrap of paper in a studious manner. Later, she uses these to wrap up the proceedings as quickly as the norms of society, the dictates of behavioural sciences and the standards of politeness would allow.
As a distinguished speaker of the evening, I am invariably dressed in an impeccable corporate style. This is merely to mask the inner shivering I happen to be experiencing at the prospect of facing a firing squad comprising close to seventy-odd students. Externally, I exude confidence. Internally, I am all of a twitter. I regret not having been prescient enough to help myself to generous helpings of a strong tissue restorative prior to arriving at the venue to deliver a speech.
True to form, once the introductions are made, an uproarious bout of clapping comes about, and an air of expectancy falls upon the hall. I gulp, mop my brow, and take a tentative sip from the glass of water in front of me. Then, after having fortified myself with a deep breath, I totter forward.
“Well, you know——” I said.
Then it strikes me that this opening lacks the proper formal dignity.
“Ladies——”
A silvery peal of laughter from the front row stops me again.
I then summon all the courage at my command, take another deep breath, and go on to describe at great length what I think of the scandalous way the tyranny of the classroom gets unleashed upon unsuspecting students. I highlight to them the benefits of taking their studies seriously, to be better prepared to face the harsh slings and arrows of life. I even go on to exhort them to get rid of their addiction to smartphones.
While I try my best to convey a few messages of the serious kind, I also attempt to induct some humour into the otherwise drab, listless, and sombre proceedings. This helps me to sugarcoat the otherwise dull and boring content of my talk.
The audience upon which my verbosity is getting unleashed listens in a state of polite resignation, often suppressing a yawn or two. With an eye on the wristwatch and a nose trying to detect the faint aroma of snacks and coffee being served outside the lecture hall, it is not difficult to discern that they are merely biding their time, hoping for the ordeal to end soon.
Then comes the time to face the firing squad, so to say. A few in the audience take turns to rise and ask carefully phrased questions which are perhaps meant less to gain a better understanding of the subject but more to impress the faculty members present. When a question gets asked in the pure spirit of proving to the assembled group that the questioner is smarter than the questioned, I decide to assert myself by saying haughtily that I can find her arguments but cannot find her brains.
Occasionally, I need to do a mental foxtrot, sidestep a question of an obnoxious kind, and instead narrate a joke, thereby leaving the audience in a confused yet pleasant frame of mind. I find that it is always a good trick to occasionally lace one’s answers with high-sounding words and complex ideas. One of the golden rules to be followed is that an audience that is bewildered and clueless about what is being said would be less prone to raising penetrating queries.
I consider myself lucky that the meeting has not turned boisterous; had that happened, the audience would surely have had more fun, but yours truly a good deal less.
As the discussion teeters on the edge of chaos, the chairperson swiftly steps in, perhaps noticing that I am just moments away from starting to twiddle my thumbs. She rushes in to conclude the affair, thereby bringing joy and relief all around. As a speaker, I am delighted that I was rescued just in time. I look upon the chair much like a typhoon survivor would look upon the US Marines when they arrive to rescue him from a disastrous situation.
Someone from the institute’s side quickly offers a vote of thanks to all and sundry, lest I might change my mind and go on to depress the audience any further. Mother Abbess hands over a ghastly-looking trophy by way of a token of appreciation and gratitude, duly accompanied by a round of applause from the audience, who are obviously delighted that their trauma is finally over. They rush out to grab the vitamins laid outside the hall, not only to keep their body and souls together but also to overcome the state of depression induced by my talk.
The organisers breathe easy, having saved their reputation as well as the furniture and other items from any damage.
The pleasant surprise is that while gobbling up the refreshments served, some of the eager beavers surround me and question me on several topics of contemporary interest. I confess this works like a soothing balm to an otherwise bruised soul. A gentle glow of inner satisfaction, howsoever transient in nature, suffuses the mortal frame. However, this is not to say that one looks forward to repeating a public speaking appearance in the future.
Anyhow, it can be safely stated that a smoothly conducted lecture meeting is one of our civilisation’s most delightful indoor games. The speaker gets to build on his brand equity and indirectly promote the inane stuff he keeps dishing out. His ego gets a boost. Surrounded by youthful energy and waves of curiosity, he ends up expanding his canvas of knowledge. If it is instead a congregation of business magnates, his circle of influence gets enlarged. The possibility of landing a consultancy assignment improves.
What is the moral of the story, you might well ask.
Well, accept any such invitation to deliver a lecture at a public forum only at your own risk and peril. Do a cost-benefit analysis before accepting the invitation. Have pluck. Have the capacity to handle the Unusual Situation. Be cautious that such an experience could end up smothering your ego. The poor thing could not be blamed for feeling as if it were getting pummelled with size twelve hobnailed army boots. If the audience comprises young students who might have perfected the art of unnerving speakers by alternately staring and giggling, develop nerves of chilled steel before heading to the venue.
Non-statutory warning: This post is not about mountaineering. Nor is it about either global warming or the pollution of the Himalayas. It is about different shades of narcissism.
A vast majority of those I come across happen to have an ‘I-am-OK-but-you-are-not-OK’ disposition towards their fellow beings. Like Thomas ‘Thos’ Gregson, the fiend in human shape, they cast supercilious glances at others, often treating them like the dust beneath their chariot wheels. Talk to them on any subject, and they puff up their chests and play a game of one-upmanship, trying to prove their superior knowledge on the subject at hand. They come in many forms, sizes, and shapes. They pop up as relatives, friends, acquaintances, superiors, colleagues, or even subordinates.
Some of them have perfected the art of first gaining your attention and then peeping deep into your lives, asking all kinds of inane questions, much like Aunt Agatha. Often, they leave you convinced that you are an utterly-butterly useless person, a mere parasite eking out an existence while cornering some valuable resources of the planet. Ferreting out some unknown part/incident of your life and then subsequently using it to ridicule you is the work of a moment for them. When it comes to the fine art of seeking details about your finances, sleuths from the Income Tax department could learn a lot from them.
At social gatherings, they monopolise the conversation. They simply love hearing their own voice. When they narrate a joke, they expect all others to guffaw, that too in an appreciative manner. If they get requested to belt out a song like Sonny Boy, they, believing that their skill level at singing is superior to that of Cora Bellinger of The Song of Songs fame, consent to do so only after throwing some tantrums. At the end of the performance, they expect to be lustily applauded.
A few others excel at gaslighting, raising queries that leave you shaken from the base of your feet to the top of your head. Remember Dame Daphne Winkworth of The Mating Season fame? In the company of such people, you can be forgiven for feeling baffled, befuddled, bewildered, confounded, confused, fazed, flummoxed, mystified, perplexed, puzzled, and stumped, all at the same time. You are left twiddling your thumbs trying to figure out if your life is going in the right direction.
Such people believe that they happen to be perched atop the Mount Everest. Whichever way they look, they only find other mountains that are not as high as they happen to be stationed on. They suffer from what yours truly would allude to as The Everest Syndrome. Let me hasten to add that I do not refer here to the genial souls who offer constructive criticism and help me to improve myself.
Do you have a career issue? They will tell you how they would manage the same better. A health challenge? They would pounce upon you with an exotic treatment that has already given them superior results. A diet plan? They would invariably have a better one up their sleeves. Putting a morsel of food down the hatch in their presence? Be prepared for it to turn into ashes in your mouth when told of the innumerable unhealthy constituents it may hold. It is another matter that when the evening dawns, they could be found chomping on a samosa or some other deep-fried stuff with much glee.
A moody and obdurate teenager at home? They would make it a point to counsel you and point out where you are at fault. An elaborate lecture on kid management will soon follow. A prompt comparison will be made between you and another family member, proving you are deficient in your teen management skills. Their own family members could not be smarter and more successful. Their affairs are always in perfect order. They themselves could do nothing wrong.
Oh, you just got back from a trip to Norway? Great. But you missed seeing the Northern Lights? What a pity! Could you at least visit the spiral tunnel in Drammen? Oh, you missed that, too? A wasted trip! A comment of this kind, accompanied by a condescending glance, makes them sound like Doctor E. Jimpson Murgatroyd. You may recall that he has sad, brooding eyes and long whiskers, and his resemblance to a frog which has been looking on the dark side since it was a slip of a tadpole is apt to send your spirits right down into the basement.
Simply put, they happen to be omniscient, having expertise in all knowledge domains, be it astrology, astronomy, gastronomy, medicine and its myriad branches, meditation, nature cure, reiki, regression therapy, spirituality, and yoga. They are the lord and master of all that they survey. Wherever they go, they need to have the last word. They believe themselves to be God’s gift to humanity. Judging others is what they do with great enthusiasm and aplomb.
Unlike Sir P. G. Wodehouse, whose works spread light, joy, and sweetness, any interaction with these descendants of Sir Edmund Hillary leaves you a wee bit depressed and glum, diluting your self-confidence and making you wonder why you are not as smart as they pose themselves to be. Contrary to being ‘sources’ of wisdom, joy, and comfort, they tend to be ‘sinks.’ If you happen to be one of those over-sensitive types, you will need to develop nerves of chilled steel, so they do not end up sapping your energy.
On the mere mention of such people, you could be excused for giving in to trembling your knees a trifle. The thought of being confronted with such a solid bunch of detractors who otherwise wear the masks of a well-wisher is unnerving.
If Jeeves were to be consulted on the matter, he would surely provide a few insights on the psychology of such persons.
One, they could be inwardly jealous of your multi-faceted achievements. They could thus be behaving like Aunt Agatha, trying to hide their own embarrassment at having temporarily lost a pearl necklace, thereby trying to overcome their own inferiority complex while in your company.
Two, they might be living in a bubble of superciliousness and simply enjoying the game of psychologically putting down all those whom they meet. In other words, it is a personality trait which is deeply ingrained in them. Thus, they might deserve more to be pitied than censured.
Three, they happen to be deficient in such behavioural traits as empathy, generosity, humility, and sincerity. Expressing gratitude and acknowledging the value others bring to their lives does not occur to them. Honest communication is not their forte. As a result, they often lack adaptability and fail to grow themselves, blissfully unaware of what they are missing in life.
Without a doubt, they have shades of what could be alluded to as a narcissistic personality. They exaggerate their achievements and talents and disregard others’ feelings. They have perfected the art of blaming others for all their problems, and unabashedly play the victim card.
How does one handle such people? Consider the following.
Reminding ourselves that in this life it is not such people that matter but the courage with which one maintains a sang froid in their company. Our lives are our own responsibility. We cannot live as per the opinion of others about us. Often, we waste much time in our lives worrying about what others would say about our decisions and actions. But if we act as per our conscience and if our moral/value compass is functional, the only thing we need to watch out for are the karmic consequences of our actions. This, in turn, needs deep reservoirs of resilience, a stiff-upper-lip attitude in general, and a higher level of self-confidence.
Let us cut through the mists of our own prejudices and try and sift the grain and the chaff. There could indeed be some merit in what such persons say. It can help if we were to first judge if such people happen to be genuine well-wishers; and if they are sincere. If so, their feedback could be given some weightage, paving the way for us to improve our lives.
We can of course decide to go on the offensive. Lives are seldom perfect. Pointing out a few flaws in their own scheme of things could be tried, though subject to the boundaries prescribed by the norms of civilised society, the dictates of behavioural sciences, and the standards of politeness. Occasionally, a back-handed compliment could stop them in their tracks, not unlike Roderick Spode when the word Eulalie is mentioned to him. A joke can lead to a light-hearted banter, designed to make them sit up and take notice. In any case, arguing with them on some point or the other might as well turn out to be an exercise in futility.
We also have the option to laugh it off and not take such people seriously. Any feedback from them could be brushed off nonchalantly, much like Bertie Wooster would tick off a dust particle from his coat sleeves. In other words, try and develop a Teflon-coated skin which repels any water that may happen to fall on it.
All of us have distinctive personalities. All of us have a set of unique circumstances under which we operate. Our responses to similar situations are as varied as the colours of a rainbow. The universe created us to enjoy our lives and strive towards achieving a state of bliss, harmony, and perfection. Those of us who happen to be steeped in consciousness seek purity and unity of thought, words, and deeds. Do we have a right to judge others? Do others have a right to judge us? I doubt.
However, as long as we are in the company of those who suffer from The Everest Syndrome, we are apt to find that the air is congested with V-shaped depressions. Consequently, while standing atop the K-2 that we infest, we look north, south, east, and west and discover quite a few clouds on the horizon.
But Bertie Wooster would tell us never to repine, never to despair, never to allow the upper lip to unstiffen, but always to remember that, no matter how dark the skies may be, the sun is shining somewhere and will eventually come smiling through.
In general, we would do well to pull ourselves together, have a chin-up attitude, and march on with our lives. If we were to gear ourselves up to scale the world’s tallest mountain, let the mountain be defined as that of our aspirations in life, whether material or spiritual. We can care better for our fellow beings and our environment. We can focus on reining in our ego, desires, anger, jealousy, avarice, and greed. We can be grateful for what we have. We need not allow others to treat us as a doormat. We can elevate our level of consciousness.
Notes:
Illustrations courtesy www.
Inputs from Suryamouli Datta and Rajeev Verma are gratefully acknowledged.
Two elderly gentlemen were taking their early morning stroll at our nearby park. Their topic of conversation, unsurprisingly, was the final results of our General Elections. For want of a better option let us call them Scratch and Sniff.
‘I say Sniff, I am trying to get my head around the election results. What exactly happened? Which side won, by which I also mean which side lost?’
‘Good question, Scratch. From what I have been able to gather from the forest of numbers being thrown at us by the Election Commission, the ruling party, NDA, has earned the right to form the government. Just about.’
‘Just about? But the INDI Alliance claims they are the moral victors, whatever that means, and that the PM should put in his papers. Is it not a straightforward question of who won the maximum number of seats? I am perplexed in the extreme, Sniff.’
‘Like Othello.’
‘Who?’
‘Never mind, Scratch. Forget about Othello. The point I was making was that both sides are claiming victory which, to my knowledge, is a first of its kind in our political history.’
‘Look Sniff, I did not find the time to read the papers this morning and I do not watch television. Am I to understand that there was a tie and that both the sides bagged exactly the same number of seats? Amazing.’
‘You have such a sweet, simple mind, Scratch. No, no. No tie involved. Let me try and lay it out for you in terms even a 10-year-old will follow. The NDA won but the BJP did not. Clear so far?’
‘Then how come Mr. Modi talks about taking the oath of office for a record third term, if the BJP did not win.’
‘Dear oh dear, this is going to take all day. Look Scratch, pin your ears back and listen carefully. The BJP needed 272 seats for a simple majority to form the government on their own. They only got 240 seats. So, they had to depend on the Telugu Desam Party (TDP) and the Janata Dal United (JDU), with whom they had formed a pre-poll alliance, to bail them out and get them over the line. That is the long and short of it.’
‘Wow Sniff, you seem to know so much. In other words, it was only a Pyrrhic victory for the BJP. Cold comfort.’
‘There you go again, why don’t you speak in plain English?’
‘Sorry Sniff. One last question. How come the INDI Alliance are shouting from the rooftops that they will form the government if they don’t have the numbers?’
‘Ah, now we enter the dark world of skullduggery. A bit of body snatching, some behind-the-scenes chicanery, plenty of blandishments on offer – anything can happen. Both sides are at it.’
‘I cannot figure out anything you are saying, Sniff. Are you telling me that neither side won the elections? I can feel a headache coming on. For the last time, tell me who won the 2024 General Elections?’
‘Democracy.’
Notes:
Illustration courtesy Suvarna Sanyal.
A version of this article has already appeared recently in The Deccan Herald.
Permission to blog this piece here is gratefully acknowledged.
Allow me to share with you how his creative genius has exercised his soft power on a lesser mortal like me.
My earliest interactions with the master of Indian Cinema
I shall not delve into an analysis of his writing or filmmaking style here. Instead, allow me to recount my enduring fascination with this individual, a fascination that has only grown over the years despite conceding to certain critics who possess a profound understanding of the art of cinema and literature. My initial encounter with this luminary was through his debut film, ‘Panther Panchali (Verses of the Road).’
Back then, in the third grade, I was enthralled by action-packed movies and witty dialogues, the kind that resonated with my young mind. To me, Spiderman, Superman, and He-Man held more allure than any film of that era. I would eagerly watch the screen, whether on television or at the cinema, during fight scenes, shootouts, or comedic moments. It was during this time that I first encountered ‘Verses of the Road.’ Watching it alongside my younger cousin, who was two years my junior, I experienced a newfound appreciation for storytelling. Unlike the captivating action sequences, my interest in this film stemmed not from its technical aspects, which was perhaps too much to expect from me at that time, but rather from its narrative, which evoked the storytelling style of my elders.
Then, a film called ‘Shakha Proshakha’ (‘The Branches of a Tree’) was aired on television. Despite being by the same director, it failed to captivate me, save for a few clever lines delivered by a young child actor who amusingly mimicked phrases like ‘Batman’ and ‘Superman’. His familiar gestures, like darting into a thicket with a toy gun, alone resonated with me deeply.
As I followed his journey, other films like ‘Apur Sansar’ (The World of Apu) and ‘Mohapurush’ (The God Man) caught my attention, yet failed to resonate, perhaps because I was too young to grasp their significance back then.
Back in my fifth-grade days, I harboured a fervent desire to emulate him – a film director, you see. It stemmed from my own struggles with academic achievements of any kind, a trait that he shares with me. I recall stumbling upon his stories in books or magazines and catching a glimpse of him on TV. Looking back, I cannot help but chuckle at my youthful naivety. As I’ve matured, both physically and mentally, I’ve come to understand that he occupies a pedestal beyond my reach. Critics may nitpick, and there may have been filmmakers of greater acclaim before and after him, but none hold a candle to the place he holds in my heart. He serves as a guiding light, steering me towards a deep appreciation for the world of film and literature.
Immersed in the legend’s Literary Palette: An Anthology of Wonder
In the 5th grade, amidst one of my summer breaks, I stumbled upon a book from my mother’s collection titled ‘Ek Dojon Goppo’ (‘An Anthology of a Dozen Stories’). The initial tale, ‘Septopus-er Khide’ (‘The Hungry Septopus’), depicted a carnivorous plant resembling an octopus, bringing peril to its owner. At the time, while I found some scenes thrilling, overall, the story failed to captivate me.
Following this was ‘Bankubabu-r Bandhu’ (‘Banku’s Friend’), narrating the story of an innocent village schoolmaster teased by peers and students until encountering an alien named ‘Ang,’ subsequently altering his life. Interestingly, I had already watched a televised adaptation of this story, featuring Sadhu Meher as Banku. Having also seen ‘E.T.’ by then, the narrative felt somewhat familiar. Controversy arose when the author, also a filmmaker, envisioned earlier adapting the tale into a Hollywood collaboration film named ‘Alien,’ encountering similarities with ‘E.T.’ Yet, irrespective of the debate, the story failed to resonate with me at the time, likely due to my prior exposure to its audio-visual renditions.
First Realization: Indigo Terror
As I delved into the pages of the book ‘Ek Dojon Goppo,’ initially sceptical of its worth, one particular short story, ‘Neel Atanka’ (The Indigo Terror), captured my attention entirely. Aniruddha Bose, a 29-year-old employee of a prestigious multinational corporation, embarks on a journey to Dumka, near Bolpur, Shantiniketan, in his own car. Along the way, he encounters a series of mishaps—his car’s tires bursting at regular intervals, forcing him to rely on only one replacement. With no other recourse, he seeks refuge in a nearby house overseen by a caretaker, a narrative device that may have subsequently inspired the Ramsay Brothers, albeit uncredited (wink!). Exhausted, Aniruddha resigns himself to rest for the night. However, in the dead of night, he awakens to find himself transformed into the former owner of the house, a European indigo planter from long ago. The story unfolds with Aniruddha grappling with his new identity and the events that follow.
Long before the film ‘Bhool Bhulaiyaa,’ this narrative evoked the eerie atmosphere of a psychological horror tale. Moreover, being a short story, it left unresolved whether Aniruddha was possessed or was merely grappling with a psychological affliction that fateful night. Much like Tagore’s ‘The Hungry Stones,’ this tale masterfully navigated a complex plot with deceptive simplicity.
How The Indigo Terror Brought Out The Creator In Me
Let me share more reflections on this story, particularly the profound impact it had on me. Aniruddha, in my perception, embodied the essence of a western cowboy, albeit without the guns and horses. He exuded a down-to-earth demeanour, living life on his own terms. Even when faced with the peculiar experience in the former European indigo planter’s house, he approached it with remarkable nonchalance, almost as if it were just another day. This aspect deeply resonated with me. By no stretch of imagination can I be held to be an expert in the craft of dishing out screenplays. However, such was the grip of the narrative that I found myself compelled to draft my own screenplay. Let me recount a few memorable elements from my envisioned screenplay:
FADE IN:
EXT. HIGHWAY – DAY
Aniruddha drives his Ambassador car at full speed on a highway, flanked by trucks and lorries. Tense and escalating background music sets the mood.
CUT TO:
INT. AMBASSADOR CAR – DAY
Close up on Aniruddha, his face filled with determination as he drives with full concentration. The camera shifts focus to three tyres – one on the driver’s side and two at the back.
CUT TO:
EXT. HIGHWAY – DAY
The right tyre at the back bursts suddenly, startling Aniruddha. He grips the steering wheel tightly, his irritation evident. The camera quickly moves outside to show the car stopped in a peculiar position on the side of the road.
CUT TO:
EXT. HIGHWAY – DAY
Aniruddha steps out of the car, frustration evident in his movements. He begins working on replacing the burst tyre, his hands moving swiftly. The camera blacks out from a top view, only the sharp sound of metal is heard.
CUT TO:
EXT. HIGHWAY – DAY
The camera lights up, revealing Aniruddha having completed his mission. His shirt clings to his body due to sweat, but his expression is one of determination and accomplishment.
—
End of Scene.
In the narrative, I recollect the scene vividly, perhaps the most haunting sequence I experienced at that time. Aniruddha gradually comes to the realization that he has transformed into someone else. His slumber is abruptly interrupted by the howling of a hound. Aniruddha casually attempts to check his watch, an automatic timepiece that was quite in vogue when the tale was penned, only to discover it missing. With a sense of dread creeping over him, he turns around to reach for his torch, only to find it absent as well! Gripped by fear, he wonders if he has been pilfered during the night in this unfamiliar locale. Springing out of bed, he rushes to inspect his luggage, only to find it gone too!
I recall envisioning myself directing this scene with a not-so-well-defined screenplay in my mind.
**FADE OUT.**
**INT. ANIRUDDHA’S BEDROOM – NIGHT**
Aniruddha’s POV: Darkness envelops the room. Moonlight spills in through the window, casting eerie shadows.
SOUND: Howling of the hound continues, distant yet haunting.
Camera captures Aniruddha’s left hand, indicating he was trying to look at his watch, finding it bare. Panic flickers in the darkness.
SOUND: A muffled gasp, barely audible.
Camera captures Aniruddha’s other hand that darts to the other side of the bed, finding emptiness where the torch should be.
SOUND: Howling of the hound intensifies, heightening the tension.
Aniruddha’s body lurches forward, the camera capturing the movement as he dives under the bed.
SOUND: Silence, broken only by the faint howling of the hound.
The camera captures the floor under the bed which looks clean and empty.
SOUND: The rustle of fabric, as Aniruddha’s hand brushes against the floor.
**FADE OUT.**
**THE END.**
DiscoveringMore of his Literature
The narrative left such an indelible mark upon me that I eagerly delved into the next tale, ‘Anathbabur Bhoy’ (The Fear of Anathbabu), with heightened anticipation. Even on a sweltering, sun-drenched afternoon, I recall vividly the lingering sense of unease that enveloped me after reading it. The enchantment, it seems, lies in the seamless integration of the supernatural, depicted with such casual and natural flair that its presence lingers long after the story concludes.
The next story I delved into was ‘Badur Bibhishika’ (The Terror of the Bat) – a tale infused with a werewolf or vampire undertone. The protagonist, also serving as the narrator, harbours a degree of chiroptophobia. Encountering a stranger named Jagdish Parcival Mukherjee in a local graveyard in Siuri, the situation takes a peculiar turn for the protagonist. He begins to suspect that Jagdish possesses the ability to transform into a bat! Undoubtedly, I found the story intriguing and maintained my curiosity into the following one – ‘Bipin Choudhury-r Smritibhram’ (Bipin Choudhury’s Amnesia). Here, Bipin Choudhury, the central character, encounters a stranger named Parimal Ghosh in a bookstore, who asserts a past connection with Bipin in Ranchi. Bipin is taken aback as he has never set foot in Ranchi before. As the narrative unfolds, Bipin confides in his close friends and realizes that indeed he visited Ranchi, yet cannot recollect the memories. The climax of the story hinges on what transpires with him. While this story adopts a thriller format, it inherently delves into the matter of values. It offers a unique fusion of values with the thriller genre. However, I must note that this narrative was adapted into a Netflix web series titled ‘Forget Me Not,’ which failed to captivate me. After revisiting ‘Bipin Choudhury-r Smritibhram,’ I revisited the stories that initially left me unimpressed, only to now find them intriguing. Thus, I found myself developing what one might dub ‘an acquired taste’ for the author’s oeuvre.
Exploring the World of a Master Storyteller: A Journey of Passion and Persistence
Following a series of articles in various newspapers and magazines, I found myself gradually developing a profound interest in the author behind these captivating stories. With each piece I read, my curiosity deepened. I started grasping the remarkable genius underlying his diverse range of writings, films, and unique filmmaking approach, including his interactions with actors. Intrigued by his distinctive style, I embarked on a quest for more knowledge.
In those days, devoid of internet access, my pursuit led me to rely solely on the insights garnered from magazines and newspapers to uncover the next book to delve into. I vividly recall spending countless hours in local bookshops, yearning to simply touch and feel the pages of his works, knowing my limited financial resources barred me from purchasing them outright. Determined to acquire his books, I meticulously saved every penny, whether gifted to me on birthdays or in recognition of other achievements. My maternal aunt played a pivotal role in assisting me in obtaining these literary treasures.
Titles like ‘Aro Ek Dojon’ (One More Dozen), ‘Aro Baro’(Twelve More), ‘Ebaro Baro’ (Twelve Again This Time), and ‘Eker pithe dui’ (One Tenths and Two) proudly adorned my book rack, marking the beginning of a cherished collection. Moreover, delving into crime thrillers penned by this author became a thrilling adventure that I eagerly looked forward to with a keen sense of anticipation.
Simultaneously, my cinematic journey continued as I immersed myself in his films, gradually developing an acquired taste for his distinct storytelling prowess.
Tales of Crime and Detection
In the same book, ‘Ek Dojon Goppo,’ nestled at its conclusion were a couple of short stories: ‘Feludar Goendagiri’ (The Investigation by My Elder Brother Felu) and ‘Kailash Chowdhurir Pathor’ (The Gems of Kailash Choudhury), which whisked me away into a captivating universe of detective tales.
Enter ‘Felu,’ a detective extraordinaire, accompanied by his trusty cousin and sidekick, delving into a myriad of mysteries, each more intriguing than the last. These tales, so uniquely crafted, were bound to astonish any reader of my tender age. Thus began my enchantment with this universe, fuelling a relentless quest for Feluda books across bookshops, libraries, and even within the confines of relatives’ homes. And never once was I left disappointed, for ‘Feluda’ was a name omnipresent on the Bengali bookshelves, an iconic figure etched into the collective consciousness of every Bengali. Fortunately, a school friend, already steeped in the delights of this literature, graciously aided me in my quest, generously sharing volumes penned by this esteemed author. It’s worth noting that this friend of mine possessed a remarkable talent for storytelling, effortlessly weaving narratives that held us spellbound during our free periods. As the monitor of our class, I now realize, it served him twofold – honing his storytelling prowess while simultaneously diverting attention away from classroom duties. Soon, our circle of friends caught the fever, engaging in book swaps and animated discussions fuelled by the gripping adventures of Feluda.
Continuing with the same method outlined in the previous section, I embarked on my quest for the treasures of Feluda, the iconic fictional detective. Pouring over magazines and newspapers, I eagerly purchased and devoured books dedicated to him in rapid succession. Titles like ‘Feluda one, Feluda two’, ‘Feluda and Co.’, ‘Badshahi Angti’ (The Ring of the Emperor), ‘Baksho Rohossyo’ (The Mystery of the Suitcase), and many more swiftly found their place on my bookshelf, filling it with an ever-growing collection.
The dynamic chemistry between the trio who belong to different age groups – Feluda, his cousin Topse, and his humorous friend Lalmohanbabu – proved to be exceptional. It is this chemistry that makes revisiting these books a delight. Sometimes, I daresay, the camaraderie between them surpasses even that of Sherlock Holmes and Watson.
Much like the majority of the author’s other tales, Feluda narratives, frequently lacking in female presence, deftly entwine moral themes amidst their exhilarating plots. Isn’t it rather curious? The absence of women in Feluda tales – is simplicity the key to less complication? Though one might raise an eyebrow at the notion of a crime thriller sans complexity, I dare say this author was a virtuoso in such matters! His narratives, akin to a well-orchestrated symphony, subtly unveil moral motifs amidst the pulse-pounding intrigue. However, though told simply, some stories feature female characters and are given a noirish treatment, such as ‘Chinnamastar Abhishap’ (The Curse of Goddess Chinnamasta) and ‘Doctor Munshi-r Diary’ (The Diary of Doctor Munshi), reminiscent of Raymond Chandler, showcasing moral dilemmas and values subtly. In ‘Baksho Rahassya’ (The Mystery of the Suitcase), Feluda opts to let the antagonist go due to a lack of evidence for a courtroom conviction. However, when the same story is adapted into a screenplay by the author, Feluda harshly punishes the antagonist, labelling him a ‘thief’ in front of others. Perhaps the author aimed to underscore the importance of ‘values’ when presenting the story in a visual format.
One of my favourite Feluda tales, ‘Joto Kando Kathmandu Te’, was later remade as ‘Kissa Kathmandu Mein’ (The Trouble at Kathmandu) for television, targeting a national audience. Though I’m uncertain if any version of it exists online today, the adaptation featured Shashi Kapoor as Feluda, Alankar as Topshe, and Mohan Agashe as Lalmohan Babu.
Cinematic Revival: Rediscovering Masterpieces
A few days after enchanting me with his literary prowess, the author was bestowed with Oscars for his monumental contributions to world cinema before departing for his heavenly abode.
During that period, ‘Doordarshan’, the Indian Television Network, aired movies directed by him. I revisited ‘Panther Panchali’ with renewed reverence for the director, followed by the delightful ‘Goopy Gayen Bagha Bayen’ (Adventures of Goopy and Bagha), which I savoured thoroughly. Finally, a Feluda tale, ‘Sonar Kella’ (The Golden Fortress), captured my attention. I recall the television host summarizing the story before its airing, describing it as the tale of Mukul, who could recall his past life and claimed to have resided in a fort in Rajasthan. Pressured by the revelation of valuable stones in his past home, Mukul becomes the target of nefarious individuals. His father seeks the aid of a private investigator. As a kid, I distinctly recall a twinge of disappointment towards the television host as she casually mentioned Feluda (who, in my eyes as well as those of many Bengalis, had already attained an iconic status) as a ‘private detective.’
Deep Focus on the author as a filmmaker
After his Oscar-winning triumph and subsequent passing away, the media was flooded with articles delving into his life and work. Immersed in these pieces, I uncovered a deeper understanding of the man and his keen eye for detail, his cinematic philosophy, and his fusion of art and science. Concurrently, I delved into his literary repertoire. His eclectic interests permeated his writings, from the adventures of detective Feluda to his captivating science fantasy tales. Yes, I purposefully employ the term ‘fantasy’ because these narratives transcend the bounds of scientific certainty, inviting readers to imagine what science might one day substantiate.
The Professor Shonku stories, in particular, transported me to a realm where viruses inhabit spherical worlds, trees thrive on human cognition, and an enigmatic pistol has the power to make beings and objects vanish from existence. In the past, depictions of robots, that are mentioned in such stories, mimicking human behaviour, seemed utterly fantastical. These days, with the rise of artificial intelligence, one is left in awe of the prescient nature of the author’s works and wonders if such portrayals may eventually blur the lines of reality.
I embarked on my journey of maturation alongside this multi-talented artist, who excelled as a director, author, and illustrator, revelling in his imaginative works. Subsequently, post-college, I had the opportunity to revisit some of his cinematic masterpieces when they were reissued in theatres. Films like ‘Arannyer Din Ratri’ (Days and Nights of the Forest) and ‘Pratidwandi’ (The Adversary) captivated me anew, allowing me to rekindle my admiration for his boundless creativity.
The Author and Wodehouse: A Meeting of Literary Minds
My fascination with P.G. Wodehouse was initially nurtured within my family circle, but his novels and stories significantly bolstered my admiration for the beloved author. I stumbled upon an article mentioning his affinity for Wodehouse, and as I matured, I discerned a striking resemblance between his works and those of the maestro himself. Whether through the sharp repartee in his films or the witty banter within his stories, his writing exudes a similar charm. Just as Feluda and Shonku have their own series, he crafted a distinct collection centered around ‘Tarini Khuro’ (Uncle Tarini), reminiscent of Wodehouse’s ‘Mulliner’ tales. While Tarini’s narratives occasionally veer into the supernatural or delve into emotional depths, the essence remains consistent. Moreover, the ‘Tarini Khuro’ stories serve as a masterclass in the art of storytelling, showcasing the creator’s versatility and prowess. One can truly grasp the breadth of his talent by delving into his literary oeuvre alone.
Feluda, the ingenious detective crafted by the author, to me, bears a striking resemblance to Psmith in his poised demeanour amid crises. Much like Feluda, who confronts his nemesis Maganlal Meghraj with remarkable calmness, Psmith maintains his cool in challenging circumstances. In ‘Joy Baba Felunath’ (The Elephant God), Feluda faces off against the formidable Maganlal Meghraj, yet his serene and collected demeanour never falters. Similarly, in P.G. Wodehouse’s tales, Psmith confronts adversaries with a suave approach and an unflappable attitude.
In the story ‘Bombaiyer Bombete’ (The Bandits of Mumbai), the author weaves a narrative where the Bengali iconic sleuth Feluda steps forward to assist his friend and companion, Lalmohanbabu. This action surely evokes memories of Wodehouse’s character Bertie Wooster, who, to aid his friends, frequently finds himself in perilous situations. The only divergence here is that Feluda must don both the Berite and Jeeves hats simultaneously to unravel the mystery.
Another story that I can remember at the moment is ‘Ghurghutiar Ghotona’ (The Trouble at Ghurghutiya) wherein, like Wodehouse’s stories, problem-solving involved misunderstandings and witty dialogues.
In ‘Shonku-r Shonir Dosha’ (Prof. Shonku in Dread Problem) we find, much like Wodehouse, characters resorting to mistaken identities and getting entangled in difficult situations.
P. G. Wodehouse is best known as a humourist. However, he had also dabbled in crime fiction, perhaps a rub-off of his having been an admirer of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie. Crime had found its way into some of his own writing, including into some of his Jeeves and Wooster and Blandings Castle stories. The range of misdemeanours depicted therein comprises thefts, bank heists, and airgun shootings, and even blackmail. In Wodehouse’s venture, ‘Death at the Excelsior’, he endeavours to concoct a crime thriller with a meticulously arranged sequence of events. Yet, at the close of the day, it leaves one with the impression of a light-hearted tale, with ‘murder’ serving as the solitary sombre element, a departure from his usual literary escapades.
While I’m fully aware that my stance might provoke the ire of passionate readers and discerning critics, let’s just say the comparison here is akin to trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. Allow me to elaborate. In the whimsical world of Wodehouse, these predicaments are served up with a generous dollop of humour and charm, akin to a delightful soufflé rising in the oven. On the other hand, our novel protagonists find themselves grappling with these challenges in the midst of murky criminal investigations, where the stakes are higher than a giraffe’s necktie. So, you see, it’s a bit like comparing apples to oranges – both fruit, but with vastly different flavours and textures!
Unveiling Wisdom: Exploring the Depths of Knowledge Through Timeless Tales
These stories are not only exciting and mysterious but also teach us new things. For example, I learned what galoshes are from reading the story ‘Neel Atanka’, even though the internet didn’t exist then! The description was so clear and vivid that I could picture them in my mind, even though I had never seen them before.
Since many of the stories about Feluda, Shonku, and Tarini Khuro are also about travel, they not only make us want to visit new placesbut also to learn more about them.
Also, I learned the meaning of the word incredible in a really easy way from the story ‘Feludar Goendagiri.’ In the story, Topse, Feluda’s cousin, helper narrator of the story, is sitting in a Darjeeling mall and overhears two old people talking about something, and the word incredible comes up. Topse knew the meaning of the word and since he’s telling the story, he explains it to the readers. Later, Feluda uses his amazing skills like Sherlock Holmes to figure out which side of the mall Topse was sitting on just by looking at his face! Topse is surprised and thinks of the word incredible in his mind. This is the easiest way to learn new words in school: first know the word, then know the meaning, and finally use it. But this story teaches us the same thing without making it feel like we’re being taught something!
From ‘Bankubabur Bondhu,’ I got a glimpse into the fascinating world of piranhas, those creatures of the depths with their sharp teeth. I also learned about the curious penguins that live in faraway lands.
There are many other such tales that I could share, but I do not wish to overwhelm you with my discoveries. Instead, I encourage you to read these wonderful writings for yourselves and embark on your own journey of knowledge.
Although the author is renowned as a director, his writings first stirred my soul. This inspired me to seek out his films, which I found equally endearing.
I may not have delved deeply into his cinematic endeavours here, for I believe the same have already been meticulously analysed by countless critics with a keen understanding of the art far surpassing my own.
Homage to the Maestro: Celebrating the Legacy of Satyajit Ray
On the auspicious occasion of his 103rd birth anniversary, I humbly acknowledge his creative genius. I offer my reverence to the individual who, alongside my parents, has steered me on my path of this lifetime, and undoubtedly will continue to do so in the days ahead.
Incidentally, throughout the entire article, I realize that I have not once mentioned his name. Yet, for the sake of thoroughness, it’s worth noting – his name, in case you are still twiddling your thumbs, is Satyajit Ray.
