I’ve been a resident of Delhi for 24 years now. In fact, as a Bengali, my connection with Kolkata has been somewhat tenuous, and my interactions limited. I did only five years of school in that city and my teenage was spent in Mumbai. As a working adult, my tenure in Kolkata was all of two years—actually a bit less than that.

Over the last quarter century, I have been an infrequent visitor to what I should, I suppose, call my home town. My work has seldom demanded that I visit Kolkata, except for a job I held for two-and-a-half years, when my boss lived there. But I am a Bengali. All my friends have told me that it is quite amazing that even with so few years of Bengal under my belt, the moment I open my mouth to speak in English (the language that I think in), there is that undeniable Bengali accent.

I think all this gives me a sort of vantage point to look at what is happening to Bengal and Bengalis.

Among many other things that must surely be happening, I—after a week in Kolkata after, what, five years?—noticed an astonishing rise of the insecurity business.

In the times that we live in, one of the best ways to figure out the context in a city you are visiting is to surf the local television channels and see what’s going on. There are dozens of Bangla channels that are not available nationwide, and there is much to see there.

The most fascinating of all for me is the staggering number of astrologers, numerologists, clairvoyants, mystics, sages, doctors armed with mysterious knowledge, and other self-proclaimed experts offering magical cures for everything from a broken heart to muscular paralysis, and all of whom seem to be doing rollicking business. In fact, these characters are perhaps the best entertainment available on Bangla television.

The people I met in Kolkata—friends, family—appeared unaware of this. But they belong to a certain demographic. They do not watch this stuff. But for me, as a visitor, all of it just kept popping up every time I switched on the TV.

There are some channels entirely devoted to this. Their revenue model is simple. They sell air time—15 minutes or half an hour—to anyone who wishes to peddle his or her promise for a fee; the contact details are flashed all the time. But almost every channel gives some time to these people. Teleshopping for mental, physical, financial well-being.

Some of these saviours appear alone and speak to the camera—and several of them just shout and harangue with an amazing self-belief. Others, who possibly are more successful and have bigger budgets, stage it in an interview format, with a pretty girl showing a little bit of skin asking questions in a reverential tone. Some take phone-ins or what are supposed to be phone-ins, because they are all patently false.

Almost all these characters are dressed in ways that I can only describe as deranged. A supposed doctor of some esoteric medical treatments wears a half-sleeved shirt with vibgyor horizontal stripes and a maroon tie with sequin blobs on it. A man who terms himself as—I am only capable of a very rough translation here—“the one whose word is truth, who worships his mother as a goddess, and who is adept at astrology and other arcane sciences especially focused on education and career counselling", is in a purple T-shirt and a shiny deeper purple jacket over it. Several, I thought, wore wigs, and not very discreet ones. Would you trust such men with your and your children’s futures?

One should of course not judge a man by his clothes, but surely, I would never have faith in Elton John as a guru or soothsayer, however much I like his music.

This Bengali insecurity industry is not a new phenomenon. In a way, 34 years of Left Front rule, with stagnant employment and aspirational possibilities, and an economic policy built on a cleverly manufactured feeling of deprivation and anger about the Delhi government—any Delhi government—gave birth to this. When Bengal opted for a change and voted Mamata Banerjee in, people expected that things would be better. But their hopes have been belied, and every manner of unproven—and unprovable—hope-giver is flourishing more than ever before.

The market leader seems to be something called an “energy power bracelet", which if you shell out ₹ 2,500 for, will come with a “lava pendant" free. Various men are hawking it on television, with testimonials, from elderly people whose back problems have vanished miraculously, to a young woman whose paralysed left arm is now fully cured. They even bring on someone who they claim is an allopathic doctor, who presses needles into the woman’s arms and pronounces that she is fully functional; but that doctor is also dressed like Bappi Lahiri on an off-day, unlike any medical practitioner I have ever seen or met.

The extent of desperation in the Bengali mind—I use the word “desperation" very deliberately, because what else could explain the success of these hucksters—is perhaps best exemplified by the new veneration for Lord Hanuman. Bengalis have never worshipped Hanuman, ever, in the last thousand or so years that the race has existed in some form. But watch an hour of Bangla TV today, and there will be someone selling a Hanuman pendant blessed by some sage, promising power, health and wealth.

Throughout the city of Kolkata, Didi is there, looking at you. On billboards that promise a brighter future or a global Bengali business summit that Kolkata is going to host soon, she is beaming. On billboards that accuse everyone of spreading calumny about the Trinamool Congress and its connection with the Saradha chit fund scam, she looks tough and militant. Meanwhile, 23 industrial parks that the state government had planned to set up have found no takers—not a single one.

It may actually not be very surprising that the people of the state are turning for succour to the higher powers. And that higher-power zone seems to be where Bengali entrepreneurship seems to be thriving.

Maybe I should buy a purple jacket and a wig.

Subscribe to Mint Newsletters * Enter a valid email * Thank you for subscribing to our newsletter.

Share Via