Every Saturday evening, four middle-aged men gathered in the University quarters of Barun Chowdhury. He was, at least, a decade younger, but as in the case of Goldsmith’s ‘Village School Master’, they could not help but wonder how one small head could contain all he knew. As he held forth on topics ranging from quantum physics to the intricacies of Indian classical music, his neighbourly friends sat around in amazement and a desire to be as wise as him.
On one of these evenings, the four neighbours were surprised to see Chowdhury’s television set missing from its place on the wall.
“I got rid of it,” he said dismissively. “Do you know why? I was tired of experiencing anger. Politicians attacking each other, rioters burning vehicles, mobs lynching innocents. All I see on screen is the base emotion of rage. It is toxic. It drains out what is civilised and noble in you.”
“What about the news, Chowdhury? Surely you must keep abreast of it?”
“There is the newspaper, Chowdhury said.” Newspapers are silent mediums of transmitting what goes on in the world without its roar and tumult.”
“Yes, yes,” agreed Deka.” Anger is toxic. They have anger management classes nowadays.”
“You see,” Chowdhury put on his favourite declamatory pose.
“Anybody can become angry - that is easy, but to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way - that is not within everybody’s power.”
“So well put,” Barua murmured.
Chowdhury’s wife came in, bearing a tray with cups of tea, sweets and savouries.
At last the men left. Barun Chowdhury sought out his wife in the kitchen. “Do you want to see me go bankrupt?” he snarled. ‘’Why did you offer them so much food, you silly cow?’’
Indrani Raimedhi