AGOMONI

 

I have never been one for celebrity worship, a stance born not from contrarianism but from a constitutional inability to see a famous person as anything more than a beautifully wrapped, single-skilled parcel. 

Sachin Tendulkar is a god with a bat and a mere mortal in all other departments. For me, the curious exception has always been Shah Rukh Khan. My admiration is not for the actor, but for the man off-screen—specifically, for his unvarnished, almost mathematical, acknowledgment of his own success. He can state, “I am the biggest movie star in India,” with the dispassionate certainty of a scientist reading a thermometer. It is a hard-hitting realism entirely devoid of the need for faux humility, a quality as rare as a quiet moment in a Bollywood potboiler.

This SRK Principle of owning one’s space stands in stark contrast to the industry’s other favourite trope: the heir apparent. Consider the Abhishek Bachchans and the Rohan Gavaskars of the world. No matter their effort, they were doomed to spend their lives in the long, inescapable shadows of their predecessors, perpetually trying to fit into a box constructed for a different shape entirely. 

The result was a palpable insecurity, a desperate straining to be accepted, which ultimately obscured any unique talent they might have possessed. They were rejected for failing to be replicas, and never celebrated for being originals.

Now, you might be wondering what Bollywood’s existential dramas have to do with the price of rosogolla in Kolkata or C.R. Park. Believe me, this is not about film stars. It is about a far grander, more tragic production: the slow-motion identity crisis of the Bengali community, particularly those living outside Bengal for generations.

Once upon a time, the Bengalis were the Shah Rukh Khans of the Indian subcontinent—the undisputed pioneers of culture, education, and modern thought. They were the scriptwriters and directors of Modern India, penning revolutionary literature, composing soul-stirring music, and stepping onto the front lines of the freedom struggle with a blend of brain and bravery that was truly iconic. But as the last British ship sailed back to the Thames, a curious thing happened. The community that once confidently set the agenda began to suffer from a collective case of Abhishek Bachchan syndrome.

The migration for jobs, a better life, and love for exploration began. But as the world progressed, a deep-seated insecurity gripped the Bengali psyche abroad. The anxiety of being the ‘outsider,’ the fear of not being accepted by the local majority, led to a tragic and ironic act of self-sabotage. The very community that once exported intellectuals began to sacrifice its cultural integrity at the altar of a misplaced and panicked assimilation.

The most glaring, and frankly, melodramatic, example of this is the metamorphosis of Durga Pujo. This UNESCO-certified intangible cultural heritage, once a five-day symphony of Sanskrit shlokas, dhak beats, and the profound symbolism of Bengal's own daughter of the mountains' arrival and departure, is now, in over 70% of cases, looking more like a chaotic variety entertainment Navaratra night. The sacred dhak is drowned out by the thumping of Bollywood item numbers and Bhangra beats; the priest, in a fit of misguided inclusivity, might just start chanting Krishna mantras for a Goddess who is, narratively, his elder sister; and the bhog and associtae food fest, traditionally a non-vegetarian feast, is often sanitized into a vegetarian platter to avoid causing any so called ‘offence.’

Let’s be clear. This is not cultural integration; this is cultural capitulation. 

It is the equivalent of serving veg momo at a traditional Bengali wedding lunch because you’re afraid your biryani isn’t good enough. Can one imagine a Pongal in Chennai featuring Garba, or an Onam in Kerala replacing the Onam Sadya with chole bhature? The very idea is absurd. Other communities carry their culture with a quiet, Shah Rukh-like confidence. Bengalis, in their diaspora anxiety, have too often approached theirs with the desperate, please-like-me energy of a struggling heir.

Now, before I am tarred and feathered as a purist advocating for a museum-piece culture, let me state: I am the opposite. There are countless traditions—particularly those pertaining to social hierarchies and gender roles—that deserve to be consigned to the dustbin of history. But jettisoning regressive practices is a world away from murdering the charming, beautiful, and unique essence of one’s identity. Throwing out the patriarchal bathwater does not mean you have to drown the cultural baby.

The root of this decay is not the dominance of a majority, but a catastrophic failure of self-confidence within the Bengali community itself. It is a failure disguised as progressiveness, a comical self-satisfaction masking a deep-seated fear of being left out. Misplaced nationalism has become the convenient mask for this cultural cowardice.

The solution, then, lies not in blaming others, but in a collective, community-wide application of the Shah Rukh Principle. Bengalis must first accept the truth of their own glorious achievement—they were, and in pockets still are, intellectual and cultural powerhouses. Next Gen bongs growing up outside Bengal, far from the roots, need to be taught the real history and told that this is the time to take those Tagore, Ray and Vidyasaagars out of the book shelves to your reading desk. 

They must stop trying to fit into a box labelled ‘acceptable minority’ and instead, with raw, refined pride, own the stage they built for themselves. Until they do, the punchline of their own joke will continue to be on them, and the slow dilution of a rich legacy will remain a tragedy played not on screen, but in the real world.