What being Bengali means

On days when I sit alone in my room,here in distant Singapore, I feel a sense of wonder at where I am, why I am here and sometimes indeed, who I am...how do I define my identity? To what aspects is it inextricably tied? What does it mean to be a girl? What does it mean to be a twenty something in the realm of education? What does it mean to be a Bengali? I think back to a story I had written as a teenager, something quite preposterous, really, to the effect of aliens from some far off galaxy taking over the world, and how the world was forced to unite as one to ward them off...and display an alarming degree of unity in diversity which is seldom found today, where battles are fought on a daily basis based on human created divisions...why then, am I so passionately attached to the language I inherited from my parents, the "cultural inheritance" I stepped into, by the mere virtue of my birth, my geographic location, the space of the universe which I had been chosen, without consulation to inhabit. Sometimes I ask this question: am I a Bengali solely by chance? A spin off of probability, a result of the many probable permutations and combinations of possibilities? Perhaps...but did Einstein not once say that 'God does not play Dice?' Am I Bengali for a reason? Do I have something to live up to? Do I need to learn something? Do I need to rectify something about this abstract notion of culture? Let me dwell on what I perceive as being Bangali...I don't think concrete answers are feasible...maybe It consists, in part, of long ago mornings when I would cling to my father's fingers, and he would slowly wrap his fingers around that thin little wrist, and take me to the bazaar...the streaks of silver, gleaming in the early morning sun, reflecting off the bodies of the fish being sold, always dazzled my eyes...the streaks of blood as they were pried apart on a 'boti,' the scales flying helter skelter, the sellers wiping their foreheads with the backs of their hands, tired after their several transactions, the stray cats hovering around, in hope of a scrap or morsel or bone...the visits to numerous sari shops with my grandmother, how she was friends with all the salesmen and women, how they would ask me which class I was in, while my grandma admired and admonished the quality and textures of the complicated (they seemed complicated to me at that time, because they reminded me of bed sheets)...how the colours would dizzy me almost, the textures varying in degrees of softness as I tentatively touched a few...the visits to the houses of guests and relatives with my mother, being force fed sweets,in keeping with the stereotypical (perhaps) hospitality, being called too skinny, being asked to recite poetry, being scrutinised, occasionally praised,always entertained... Learning the Bengali alphabet, the beautiful letters, and in my opinion the most beautiful language in the world, though I acknowledge the greatness of every other, writing the letters wrongly at first, being reprimanded... my school, Calcutta International School, Mrs. Chatterjee's pedagogical approach,Mrs. Lal's goodness and nature worshipping, (how we buried a butterfly which no longer had the life to flutter by),the early morning school bus rides, the conductor uncles, the cosmopolitan feel of mutual respect of those from varied communities... Dakshinapan, the quaint shopping complex, the store which sold me a defective toy near Park Circus, the inexplicable and delirious joy derived from Durga Pujo, the smell of the season of Shorot, the blessing of unfurling and unravelling the songs of Tagore,the mesmerising beauty of his emotions and feelings, presiding over this City, almost uniting it, in its grasp of deep thoughts, simple feelings and ultimate connection. The December mornings of awakening to hot tea, the quick evenings, the lngering nights... Jadavpur University, where cigarette smoke (which I hate) mingled with 'adda,' the quintessentially Bengali term for conversation...where we learnt the complex theories of literary analysis, where we made friends, where we forged connections, where we broke our hearts when connections did...where each of us harboured a secret crush,perhaps, where I was too shy outside the classroom,where I never bunked a lesson and thought I should on the last day and just sat outside the class and watched others copying notes...copious cups of iced lemon tea and those evenings on the grass by the Jheel, a little lake,as evening descended in circles of pink, and our day was coming to an end, and the time for spending at home was approaching... The city, my city, which always welcomes me by default, where I have been born, a decision I have not made, I have not consciously taken, but a decision which I will strive to live up to...the enlightenment of Ramkrishna, the way in which he acknoweldged and respected multiple religions, the social awakening of a collective conscience by Vivekananda, the altruism and compassion towrds women shown by those such as Vidyasagar...the beautiful smile of Mother Teresa, who realised that home was where one chose as well...the crisp prose of Leela Majumdar,the movies of Ray, oh, everything, there is so much to live up to... And these make me Bengali...