What the Calcutta Season must learn from the Seasoned Indian

The concluding period of the calendar year is often naively revered as the Calcutta Season, a rather nauseating spell of love and indulgence, when residents old and new converge.Quite evidently, the obsolete city has a lot to learn from dynamic India, charmingly crystal clear about identity and affiliation.

It truthfully begins at the dining table where worthies across faiths devour every form of cookable creation, without even a token license from powers that were or be. What's sincerely alarming is the rapid dip in paneer consumption, in spite of its proven conformist character, digestive and legislative. Quite plainly, the citizens of this lazy land have not heard about the glorious Western Indian state, where food not vegetarian may not be seen in public places, permissible invisibly in discreet ghettos.

This miserable strain continues to potent liquids as well, with butter milk and nimbu pani being given the royal ignore. Perhaps these reckless fellows have not analysed the experiment of a neighboring state, where the character of an entire generation has been cleansed by prohibition, with crime and corruption miraculously obsolete. Reliable anecdotes suggest that bars are merrily in trade way beyond the midnight hour, an appalling travesty in our early to bed and early to yoga popular dispensation.

What's equally terrifying is how folks from every other faith openly celebrate the festival of a solitary faith, there is surely no confusion in comprehension. They have not learned a bit from erudite middle India where the rituals of exclusion define the route for inclusion, and that is surely the stated way to grow. Midnight mass is a public spectacle, the fruit cake is a saccharine adhesive, a visitor on a reindeer is an intuitive unifier and trivial decoration a source of much joy- the hearth of Tagore has surely lost its fabled sense of depth.

Bollywood is the reigning deity of the Seasoned Indian and a deep ally of rightful authority, but in the Calcutta Season strange Western tunes seem to reign. Some are thankfully plainly commercial but a few others seem inarguably contextual and everybody, unconnected to declared credentials, enjoys the party. What's more, shamelessly dressing up in foreign attire to dance intimately with the collaborator, without even observing the token physical distancing of our beloved garba.

In continuance with this debilitating strain, the conversations in the sickening sequence of reunions rarely echo the impeccable mainstream sentiment. There are fearless discourses on glorious precedence and ideal alternatives, multifaceted references to monks old and new, global benchmarks brazenly brandished, all with an unfathomable disdain for the dictated doctrine. Imagine a full fledged felicitation retinue for the golden jubilee of neighbouring Bangladesh, with the citizenship imbroglio alarmingly ignored.

As a student of traditions, the case for the prosecution gets further strengthened as everybody goes helter skelter for a pound of cake, from elderly Goan establishments or new age entities desperate to don an imported persona. A truly heartless action, deeply inconsiderate of the troubles faced by mithai shops, in a year of scathing lull. Fellows, otherwise careless about the environment, rush to New Market to buy a tree they will never plant and fill it with articles they have rarely seen, when they could easily plant a sapling in the neighboring patch of green.

If Santa Claus was the creation of the Coca Cola Company, then surely the Calcutta Season is the product of disreputable company. Fellows down the ages who have embraced distasteful autonomy in belief and culture, sharply contradictory to our revered national consciousness. This callow aberration must be immediately nuked and summarily dismissed, through severe and sublime censure.

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