Keya Sarkar: St Valentine Inc

PEOPLE LIKE THEM

I am sure that almost all members of my generation in India are absolutely amazed at how Valentine's Day has become a national festival, that too in less than a few years. While marketing brains had begun to like the concept in the late 90s, by early 2000 they had succeeded in not only making the most of it, but actually squeezing it dry of all love so that only commerce was left behind.

In Mumbai there was no escape. From jewellers and chocolatiers to florists and of course, the many international brands of watches and crystals ensured huge recall for the new festival. Personally, what was far more jarring than the mushy advertorials were the half-starved kids trying to sell red heart-shaped balloons to people in air conditioned cars. Or my normally sane local Gujarati farsan shop trying to sell me heart-shaped dhoklas. Even if we have to make other peoples' festivals our own for commercial reasons, surely we could do so with a little more class.

When I moved to Santiniketan, I was genuinely happy that such meaningless western festivals are not celebrated here (God knows Santiniketan has enough and more festivals of its own). Valentine's Day came and went and I would have completely missed the occasion if it wasn't for the TV channels and my mobile service provider!

A chance conversation with a senior member of the Viswa Bharati University actually put my mind at peace. She lamented that unlike earlier generations, the present lot of students at the university no longer take campus romance seriously. Bengali youth have always been proud of their ability for emotional excesses, and Santiniketan was considered the headquarter of romance. The Santiniketan girls' unmatched sense of aesthetics "" reflected in their dressing, their coyness and their inclination to break into Rabindra sangeet at the slightest provocation "" were all a potent combination for the men. "But now," she said, "the students are too interested in their careers. They do not seem to have the time for romance, especially of the poem writing and flower presenting variety." While I mourned the loss of a beautiful culture, it also meant that the marketing machine of Valentine's Day may not find too many takers here. Hasty conclusion that.

Santiniketan is actually an extension of an older town, Bolpur, which existed much before Tagore set up the university. Bolpur, like any small town, has its own quaintness. Especially for people who have experienced subliminal advertising of varied shades, Bolpur's aggressive, in-your-face ways of information dissemination are particularly endearing. The selling of rat poison and indigestion wonder cures, announcements of which movie is coming to town, which specialist doctor from Kolkata is to visit "" are all done by men who sit in cycle vans or rickshaws with a loudspeaker and blare out a script. Sometimes these are taped messages played on rusty systems and at others, they are live, spoken extempore, like by the seller himself.

Last week on one of my trips to Bolpur, I heard the familiar cacophony of the selling tape. "Bhalentine Day hungama," he said, "at the Geetanjali Cultural Centre." "Nach, gaan hungama," he kept repeating. I shuddered at what the adoption of an alien culture could do. I found myself looking at every person on the road as a potential participant. STD booth operators, grocery store keepers, sweet shop owners, road-side vendors, all looked like candidates for the hungama.

If I was sickened by what St Valentine had done to Mumbai, this was revulsion of another kind. I am now mentally on the lookout for going more interior, settling in some area which promises freedom from "romance" for at least the next decade.