Tuesday, October 07, 2008


It has long been proven that Jesus was a Bengali. He was with his mom for 35 years; he thought his mom was a virgin; his mom thought he was god. Now, these three are common with all Bengali sons, and it also proves beyond doubt that he too was none other than our Jishu. Historians are looking for just one proof before declaring this to the world. Did Jishu use a bolster while sleeping?

If he was a Bengali, he must have used a bolster to sleep at night. Bengali sons, who sleep between their parents till the age of about 15, are given a bolster thereafter as they move to their own room. By 15 they have obviously learned to jerk off, so the arrangement of another room. Most Bengalis could not afford a separate room for their children until even the last decade, and that also perhaps explains why they had to keep their children in the same bedroom, but something tells me they don't want their children to grow up.

In the other room, the Bengali son goes off to sleep after hugging a soft bolster. In his wet dreams, of Madhurima, Tilottama, Tamali, Tisyapali, or even of goddess Saraswati at times, the Bengali son chokes the bolster to death.

And then he grows up and is sent to the hostel. Bags are packed, a horde of relatives accompany him to the railway station to see him off. Everybody is teary eyed, as he fades with the train into the distance, his fat lunch box still dangling from his other hand. With one, he is busy wiping his tears. "Dugga dugga."

The Bengali son writes his first letter: Ma, I reached. Got my room and put up your pic there. My roommate is a Bihari, a very studious guy. My bolster is a huge hit with the others. Arup borrowed it the other day to get a good night's sleep after his class tests. You know ma? Everybody is a nocturnal here. They stay up till 3 or 4 in the morning. I too join them at times. I take my bolster there and our senior dada, Gora, who has failed a couple of times, leans on it and tells us stories. Bishnu says he will get a nice, embroidered cover for my bolster from Gujarat this summer.

The Bengali son grows up even more. Almost can be called a man by now. He has learned to shave and also say hello to the girls. But even today he terribly misses his bolster when he visits the girls' hostel. That could have given his restless limbs something to hold on to like a koala hugs a branch. In the absence of a bolster, the Bengali son is absolutely clueless about what to do with his limbs, and mostly one can see them hang about his body without any definite purpose. "They gave me a nick, ma, but I like it. They call me a chimp." So, the Bengali son has learned to pocket his hands and has also coined the idiom "deep pocket," which has found some different connotations these days.

The Bengali son gets married. All these years of jerking off are going to pay off now. He will step into manhood. For a brief moment, the bolster is relegated to the backyard of the Bengali son's mind. All he can think of is how to pounce on his live bolster the night of his wedding. In anticipation, the Bengali son keeps checking himself in the loo and goes around asking his friends about the female anatomy. Just where is it, can you tell me? The experienced Bengali sons tell him. He enters the room. The bed is covered in rose petals. His bride is perched on the edge of the bed with her face covered. She too has forgotten her bolster for a brief moment and is counting her rapid heartbeats. He reaches the bed. She looks up at him. But his gaze is fixed somewhere else.
There are two red bolsters on the bed, covered in nice red velvet.

"Eta tumi nao, borota aami nilam" you can hear the Bengali son mutter with a big smile as he takes the bigger of the two. And then they go off to sleep.