From Hollywood

Once upon a time, all I knew about America was Disneyland, a place where “ET” came from, and where most movies were made.

There is concept in modern physics called the “participant/observer” which simply speaking means that it is not possible for the observer to completely get the true nature of the observed without disturbing it. In other words, observers cannot avoid being participants, hence, objective truth is impossible to detect, and uncertainty is inherent in what we are observing. This concept extends beautifully into what eastern mystics have called Maya clouding absolute truth or what the western poet calls – “beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder.”

Though, I like to believe that my experiences have provided an understanding of the changing times, but being a participant, my vision is clouded. And the truth gets largely hidden – unless there comes time when situations force me to turn my head to look at what has changed. For me – it was a pleasure trip to Hollywood!

So here I am in Universal Studios, where I am riding “Back to the future” to “Jurassic Park”. Here Judy Garland has never grown old, and Lucy still lives with her slapstick. Looking around, I find so many saree-clad ladies that not only do I seem to have lost my time compass but also my space compass.

Anyway, this is what gave shape to America many years back – in my own world far in India. Hollywood put America in my mental map as that country that existed behind the clouds in the western horizon; as that country that was on the other side of the rainbow.

In those years – maybe I was eight or nine, like many others in India, USSR was the role model. The conversations on the splendid Spasky-Fischer’s chess matches were still alive, and childrens’ magazines like Anandamela still ran articles on those games, there were those childish grandification of superiority of Russian military, that Sputnik came first and America can never catch-up, that USSR was better off in sports – you name it, and there were no doubts who was the winner. Even in the multiple country jokes, Russia will come second to India. The Olympic games in 1984 was discredited in our hearts, because USSR was not there. In sum, that was the psyche of a typical child growing up in India, with some limited access to print and televised media; and I was no different.

I grew up with what I can collectively term as “Russian books”. Up to the point when my memory goes, there was this lady who would come once a month – going door to door, selling Russian books of all genre. My child heart would crave in anticipation whenever I saw her walk in my compound; my mouth salivating. Suddenly, I would become a very good, obedient boy, so that I don’t ruin my chances by annoying my parents. And when that happened – once or twice, cajoling my grandfather would always work. Her magical bag had the keys to my kingdom. Not that she was that old, but her bag was my mythical thakurmar jhuli. The books were colorful, glossy, and most importantly they smelled so good. Since then, the smell of a new book has always been as enticing as what was inside.

So my journey began with a BIG book whose main character was “UCK” all the way to Chekov and The Idiot. She saw me grow from shorts to trousers; her own hair turning from black to grey. I never knew where she came from; I never bothered to find out - up until the day when I realized that she was not showing up anymore. It was not that obvious, and only after a few months, I came to terms that she will not come anymore. An unceremonious exit from my life. Much like the way Russia wiped out from my psyche, as the model nation.

By then, I had got into the rigor of Math and Physics, and solving Irodov’s physics problems became my full-time and pastime vocation – just because they were so hard and challenging. By then, I had learned a bit about the hollowness of Soviet socialism. I also met few people who shared their experiences in Russia, and though, hard to believe, I did realize there was something fundamentally wrong - that was against human dignity. I also learned how this book selling was a part of a larger propaganda machine. In West Bengal, this was all the more pronounced because of support from the local communist groups. Every gathering - be it a village fair or Durga Puja, there is a red color communist book stall selling literature. But why and how the collapse of the Soviet Union took place has always intrigued me. When I ask my Russian friends who have moved to US, they prefer to avoid sharing their lived-experiences, much like what the typical German response is to Holocaust.

Maybe someday I will understand conceptually what happened, but it will take a lifetime to uproot the wonderland that was cooked up – rather fictitiously, by the fairy tales that lives with me. Hollywood will take a while to replace that – and it will not be that easy. In some crude sense, the fact that I was a participant within the propaganda machine - Hollywood could show me that.