The crush of civilisations

In a remarkable coincidence, Valentine’s Day and Saraswati Puja will come to life on February 14, 2024. Thus, marking the uncanny unification of multiple genres of speculative romance, both intuitive and explicit. With due acknowledgement to Samuel P Huntington, we can consider this to be the ‘crush’, and not clash, of civilisations. 

Valentine's Day originated as tribute to a saintly martyr, alas the destiny of many a romantic aspirant in these troubled times. Saraswati Puja, on the other hand, is a celebration of knowledge, which acquired crossover hues of transitory affections by dint of cultural codes. The beauty of both is the evolving tradition, not steeped in original custom but sincerely rooted in valuable emotion. 

Quite naturally, the popular affairs industry makes lucrative hay out of February 14, an annual funeral of hard earned pay cheques. Flowers become costlier than khus khus, restaurant packages replicate Antilla benchmarks, gifting acquires hues of Indiana Jones expeditions and sweet nothings are rudimentary stock in trade.

Saraswati Puja also has its organic outreach, culturally rooted Bengali boys enlarging their organic repertoire with meaningful solicitation, boldly stated and not simply felt. A leap of faith, sometimes suicidal, as words must now be matched by actions, that too pocket drenching. Under the watchful eyes of a significant presiding deity, as without marks careers are indeed numbered.

Thus, today becomes a fine day to dive deeply into the various genres of solicitors, or rather, fellows who are willing the approval of many worthy ladies.  Make no mistake, this tactical swayamvar does happen in reverse mode as well, and that may well be the substance for yet another piece. But for the moment, let boys be boys, whether Mohenjodaro, Mesopotamia or Machu Picchu. 

A notable entity, from Bengali genes, is the poetic bazooka, rooted in cerebral gunpowder. On this day, he will be in traditional finery, the Gariahat dhoti substituted prudently by the FabIndia tight fit. The kurta, in deference to Spring, will be shades of yellow, the voluminous redness of revolution a panellist as well. Quoting profusely from the inspirational Tagore, he will bow gracefully but never succumb wilfully. Victoria Ocampo, the Argentinian muse of the Nobel Laureate, remains the steadfast alibi and the pulsating context. For a lifelong pursuit of muses, never for shallow amusement but indeed, eclectic collabs. Under the overwhelming blitzkrieg of such multi sensorial affections, only the incorrigible profligate will be duly excluded. 

There are variants of this strain, developed by the winds of evolution. The Captain, colloquially adored as ‘Kaptan’, a mainstream supremo in all such agendas. A character from the ages but refined by the present, he is a sublime tactician at heart, or in matters of the heart. If the candidate is literary at the roots, the latest loot from the Book Fair, will be the belly of the chat. When, instead, the person of interest is wedded to super chefs, a trip to Cafe Sienna, or some such doppelganger, will be lovingly marinated. For the infrequent Leftist, a capitulating breed, the cues are deliberately ‘ brain tonic’, with the boyfriend deeply in gratitude for the magnanimity of the revelry destination. 

Now, moving on to the St. Valentine’s mode, the global inferno out to make a topical, often tropical, mark. The Gurgaon Capone is one such element, a lovable gangsta but nobody’s pal, while not quite Al from Chicago. From his garage filled with luscious plenties, he will unleash the seasonal jaggery, whether BMW or Škoda or Brezza. Then, after a gorgeously sinful grooming session, he will descend on the driveway of the recipient, of such considerate largesse. The wine will ideally be Maltese, Italian so passe, the paneer an outcome of Jersey Cows, Carolean in pedigree. While the Tiramisu must reek of Florence or Milan, home kitchens of Mehrauli such a distressing distraction. The evening concludes with a feisty farewell, as our hero finds refuge in his Whatsapp band of brothers, as bhabhiji has now departed.

The second impresario, from the same cadre, is the Silicon refugee, a soul from the valley who is seemingly on endless parole. He is lightly attired in beatific suits, linen in the case of Bombay and Bangalore. While his script is clearly the revolution of evolution, how Mars holds the secret sauce for terminating the fallacies of undernourished Earth. He will commence the evening in the egalitarian confines of Theobroma or so, embracing dialogues of bestial, or celestial, significance. Involving the metaverse while not excluding Aristotle, the patron sainthood of Warren Buffet will be the adjacent adhesive suggestive of a common destiny. Ladies in the spell of such folks, will be gobsmacked by possibilities, charmed by the affluence of imagination and inspired by the bravado of eyesight. Till February 15, most certainly. 

The beauty of February 14, 2024, is the unification of two such unconnected worldviews, emanating from diverse cultural mores. Perhaps the assimilating lubricant is the unassailable supremacy of love, whether a private emotion, a public demonstration or a contractual attachment. Or, maybe, the roots of such rapprochement are simply epicurean, the determination to seek deeper meaning just an academic endeavour. There can, patently, be no solitary answer.

In the meanwhile, aficionados of both gharanas will do exactly the following. Wake up freshly, observe the tenor of fasting, diligently perform 'anjali’, relish a bite of khichuri and then migrate to the ‘Seeta Aur Geeta' mode. To quickly assume the software upgrade, to the St. Valentine’s mode, assuming the delicacies of global citizenry, with due caveats. This duality is, in many ways, the celebration of the India we revel in and therefore, an emotion that must be pampered. Let the crush prevail, as civilization can gain nothing from clash.

(Shivaji Dasgupta is an autonomous writer on brands and customer centricity.)