Of Victory Tower and Buttered Asparagus

Once again I was in the Kingdom of Bhutan. Landed up at Paro on a sunny monday morning. My efficient welcoming team was there to receive me. Good old Yeshi has even thought of showing me around Paro as the road to Gedu will open only at 12.30. (Part of road widening project…sponsored by India of course, but to mark 100 years of monarchy in Bhutan next year!)So we had about 3 hours …and it was decided that they will take me to Drukyel Dzong (Bhutan-Victory Fortress). On the way to the Dzong ruins , I saw the famous Tiger Nest Monastery from a distance. It looks very tempting for a trek . Yeshi informs that it is about 2-3 hour trek and on full moon nights there is quite an attendance at the monastery.
On the way we passed through several small and mediam sized hotels and resorts, a clear sign of booming tourism in Bhutan .Another very symbolic sight I found just near the stairs going upto the Drukyel Dzong. It was a Dish TV antenna placed at the roots of a very ancient looking pine tree. Bhutan was changing for sure.

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People were debating about mock elections and how many could not vote in it due to bar on vote-by post for many categories of people. I heard that the chief Engineer of THPA has recently resigned from government service to contest election. Though I find this childlike enthusiasm towards democratic politics very charming….in the heart of my heart I fear if it will lead to all the vices this party politics brings .I hope and pray that it doesn’t.

Reaching at the foothill of the Drukyel Dzong, I was very curious to know the history of the place . First thing the ruins reminded me was the monastery in the “Name of the Rose” .Perhaps somewhere in Italy , similar ruins inspired Umberto Eco to write that magnificent tale of sleuth and horror. Yeshi, my all knowing escort, informed that this fortress was built in 1647-49 during the time of Zhabdrung Ngawang Namgyal, to commemorate the victory of Bhutanese forces over the Tibetan invaders. Exactly after 302 years the fortress was swallowed up by flames zeroing most of it right to the ground it once stood proudly on.

Today the Utse ( tall square citadel housing main temple in the dzong ) is the most preserved part of this complex . On the four corners there stood four watch towers , strategically guarding the fortress. The entrance must have been majestic once upon a time…there were dungeons for prisoners and also the emergency river channel going down the river (paro-chu) .Water was the life source for a place like this and if enemies manage to poison or cut the source of it…there was no escape . The glorious victory fortress looks splendid even in its ruins . I was pained to find the signs of tourist-nuisance even in these ruins. I am even more ashamed as all those names and marks made on the historical ruins were Indian. How I wish we as a nation had some sense of preserving heritage- ours as well as others. The place looks so alive, can’t help making comparison with “The name of the Rose” once again. Utse can jolly well be the central tower housing the library and the kitchen . Was there a library here as well? It’s strange but the next thing that came to my mind was James Hilton’s Shangri-la. It also had a monastery, probably in this region only…and there was a library there as well.

Before my imagination could take me any further, I was taken to a beautiful resort- Kichu . We were heading for an early lunch. To suit my taste buds they had arranged Indian food…but when I told them my fondness for Bhutanese dishes, in a minute or two I was treated with Buttered Asparagus …..Butter, cheese, Bhutan….very very related images for me. And so are the wildflowers…flowers were blooming everywhere. The airport was full of small yellow flowers. The fields we passed through greeted us with bunch of white wild flowers and even in the resort trees were flowering like mad.

मैंने आहुति बन कर देखा ....

This poem is by सच्चिदानंद हीरानंद वात्स्यायन "अज्ञेय" . ...my favorite poet in Hindi and this is one of the best poems coming from his pen.....

मैं कब कहता हूं जग मेरी दुर्धर गति के अनुकूल बने,

मैं कब कहता हूं जीवन-मरू नंदन-कानन का फूल बने ?

कांटा कठोर है, तीखा है, उसमें उसकी मर्यादा है,

मैं कब कहता हूं वह घटकर प्रांतर का ओछा फूल बने ?

मैं कब कहता हूं मुझे युद्ध में कहीं न तीखी चोट मिले ?

कब कहता हूं प्यार करूं तो मुझे प्राप्ति की ओट मिले ?

मैं कब कहता हूं विजय करूं मेरा ऊंचा प्रासाद बने ?

या पात्र जगत की श्रद्धा की मेरी धुंधली-सी याद बने ?

पथ मेरा रहे प्रशस्त सदा क्यों विकल करे यह चाह मुझे?

नेतृत्व न मेरा छिन जावे क्यों इसकी हो परवाह मुझे ?

मैं प्रस्तुत हूं चाहे मिट्टी जनपद की धूल बने-

फिर उस धूली का कण-कण भी मेरा गति-रोधक शूल बने !

अपने जीवन का रस देकर जिसको यत्नों से पाला है-

क्या वह केवल अवसाद-मलिन झरते आँसू की माला है ?

वे रोगी होंगे प्रेम जिन्हें अनुभव-रस का कटु प्याला है-

वे मुर्दे होंगे प्रेम जिन्हें सम्मोहन कारी हाला है

मैंने विदग्ध हो जान लिया, अन्तिम रहस्य पहचान लिया-

मैंने आहुति बन कर देखा यह प्रेम यज्ञ की ज्वाला है !

मैं कहता हूं, मैं बढ़ता हूं, मैं नभ की चोटी चढ़ता हूं

कुचला जाकर भी धूली-सा आंधी सा और उमड़ता हूं
मेरा जीवन ललकार बने, असफलता ही असि-धार बने

इस निर्मम रण में पग-पग का रुकना ही मेरा वार बने !

भव सारा तुझको है स्वाहा सब कुछ तप कर अंगार बने-

तेरी पुकार सा दुर्निवार मेरा यह नीरव प्यार बने!

In The Land Of Gross National Happiness…..

( This was part of my diary written during my last trip to Bhutan: the land of thundering dragan. As I am leaving once again for that lovely country later this month, I decided to put a part from my diary on blog.)

Coming from one of the most populous countries of the world, it was difficult for me to imagine a nation where, there are 700,000 people in all with 20,000 of those Buddhist monks and nuns. One airport, not in the capital city, has two flights a day; one from Calcutta and the other from New Delhi. Paro, where the airport is located is 65 km from Thimphu, the capital.Thimpu is also home to the king and his 4 wives. Two newspapers published twice a week and one radio and one TV channel of its own.

Imagine a state where PM’s house has just 2-3 security guards to protect the place…not that there are no guards neither it is any laxity in protection but simply….no protection is required. My young escort Rinzin was surprised when I asked him “ But Ma’am what is the need for guards?…and to guard against who? or what? We love our government…they are doing such good work. Who would like to harm the PM? ”. He had a point…I must say. No wonder in this small country unlike neighboring Nepal, the king is making clauses in constitution to curtail his own powers….has announced to step down in 2008 and is leading the country for parliamentary democracy by conducting Mock Elections.(the real ones will be next year sometime). Things here are just too utopian…too good to be true…true nevertheless.
Last year when an anti corruption office was formed…many argued against it….they simply don’t find enough corruption in public life to justify the need of such an office. However, I am sure my auditor friends Chimi and Ugyen will have a different take on this. Later, on the dinner table Chimi told me that prices for each essential commodity are fixed ? ”And no one tries to breach them.” I asked. “Why should they try such a thing? It’s the right price after all..” He told me . I felt almost like a scum for suggesting such an unthinkable thing.

The king has declared he is not interested in Gross National Product but is much more concerned with Gross National Happiness. And that sentiment runs down through the last yak herder we ran across. The Bhutanese intensely follow the teachings of Buddha and are happy to discuss how good their lives are and how they have no worries about what they might be missing. Traditional clothing, a knee length wrap-around robe for men with dark knee socks and a floor length, beautifully woven sarong type garment for women, must be worn until 5:00 p.m. each day by law. There is no smoking outside anywhere at any time. (Oh what a relief it was after the Kolkata streets where bhadralok will breach any law against smoking and will force you to become their smoking partner…passively I mean.)
But much before all these when I climbed into Drukair airbus from Kolkata….I knew its going to be a great day. They were playing some chimes like music, pilot had a friendly voice ( and promised to show as many peaks on the way as possible) and air hostesses in traditional dresses were looking smart. A tip to remember that on your way to Paro sit on the left side of the plane and way back on the right I just vaguely remembered some such comment on a website and thus got the best view of Kanchanjangha and many other Himalayan peaks. We were flying so low we can almost count the individual blue pine trees in steep forests below. The airport's altitude is 7000 feet, and we're still in monsoon clouds. .The Paro airport is located in Paro Valley, accessible only by Nintendo type moves flying in and through the valleys and mountains. If the weather drops in at all, there are no flights into Bhutan...it can't be done. Soon we can see the branches on the trees, mingling tentatively with loose tufts of vapor, whispering the presence of a mystery. We spot women in small rice paddies, close enough for us to name multiple colors in the kiras, their traditional clothing. Sharp embankments are within shouting distance of our wings, and children on mountain roads stop to wave enthusiastically as we descend. We've been told that a safe arrival in the Paro airport takes a skilled aviator, so it's a good time to remember that miracles are known to happen here. 55 min flight ended just too soon.

A look at the sky and I knew I was nearer heaven. It was blue…a perfect dark blue sky….and there were green conifers all around. The river moved side by side our way to Thimpu. All the houses had the typical wooden windows and doors with colourful paintings on it…each one of them worth a picture postcard shot.”(Later in the day Chimi-Ugyen informed me that it is illegal to deviate from the traditional Bhutanese architectural style while building houses…hence the homogeneity….even in the UN buildings here) We crossed a confluence of Paro-chu and Thimpu-chu from where 2 roads parted ..one for Thimpu and other for Gedu and Haa.
Once in Thimpu…I was glued to the scenery outside… a clean nice small hilly town. And such wide roads. We passed through a number of beautiful buildings…various ministries ….election commission…royal monetary authority (their central bank), monasteries…and others. In the car, Bhutan Broadcasting service was relaying news….eldest queen on a trip to eastern districts, Japanese delegation met with ministers and India will support an urban development scheme.
My escorts took me to Takin Preserve area…a reserve forest to protect the national animal Takin. This unique mix of a goat and a cow is found only in China (Tibet) and Bhutan….they have a myth for the animal’s origin. Lama Drukpa Kuenley , the 15th century saint known for his outrageous antics once ate a goat and a cow….and then put the goat’s head on cow’s bones and upon a command from the lama this strange animal came to life…and they called it Dong gyen key (Takin) . I really liked the drive up to Takin Preserve area. Rinzin pointed out to some rather simple looking houses on the way as residences of the four queens. Then to my astonishment said that the King lives alone in another house on the other side of the mountain … a very common looking place. So there is no magnificent palace for the most good-looking king of Asia….sounds bit unreal and a lot more unromantic to me.
Royal family mingles with commoners quite a lot…not so much in Thimpu though. There are 11 princes/princesses….but 25 yr old crown prince (son of third queen) is the most popular one.

At the most central point in the Thimpu city Memorial Chorten stands tall to remind the Bhutanese of their 3rd King . I also went to Dechenpnog Monastery…. The monastery is existing since 1400 AD and is about 25 min drive away from Thimpu….on the way we passed through the army training school. I was told that Bhutanese army has about 8000 soldiers but now it has been decided to reduce the number and to make military training compulsory for all men-women. We also passed through the India Estate ….area when Govt. Of India offices and embassy is situated. A nice location…they have their own golf course as well. India has definitely the biggest foreign presence for the country. Other consulates are Thai, Bangladesh and Nepal. For other countries, they get visas from India. . Nearer this in a golf course the 25 yr old crown prince, heartthrob of the entire nation, was playing golf. Rinzin informed me that the King is not interested in golf…he plays basketball and used to be a good footballer. We climbed up to the monastery through about 100 stairs….The main building was closed…in any case even when it is open only monks and males are allowed. Visited the other deities….there were colorful tankha paintings all around. There was Guru Riponche and some other deities. The wall paintings were looking quite ancient ……on our way back Rinzin showed the trek route to the monastery…we followed it downwards.

A memorable trip to Drachula with Ugyen and Chimi followed next morning. Drachula was no way what I was expecting it to be…first it was no way old…it was build in 2004….second it was not a pass…as I thought it would be. It’s a place where the eldest queen built 108 chorten stupas…..for king’s victory and long life. I was told that no king of Bhutan so far lived to see his 50th birthday …so when the present king turned 51….and at that time there was this insurgent problems in the eastern parts…queen decided to build these chortens to please deities. All the labour provided was voluntary and guess what…even Ugyen and Rinzin worked here for few days as labourers …. Need to learn a lot from these simple folks.

The Bhutanese have a cultural proclivity for butter. Butter is used extensively in their cooking. They make butter sculptures for the interior of the temples, use butter for all their small candles in the temples and homes and the high point - butter tea. Most easily described as melting a pound of butter, tossing in a few herbs for seasoning, into the teacup and "Here's to your health." It must be an acquired taste as I could not get through more than a lip touch, even with the addition of puffed rice said to ease the taste...just couldn't do it. The most delicious “Ema –dachi” is also prepared with lots of cheese and green chilies. Initially the food tasted bit strange but after a while I relished it .
Things were so different from India…so close by and yet so distinct in its ways. After a while it was great to be in a country where people feel happy for the small things and have time for leisure. I can jolly well agree that Gross National Happiness is much more desirable than Gross National Product and if the latter is not leading for former….well, there is a problem.

चाँद और कवि

This poem always inspires me to dream big, dream to change the world, dream for things seemingly impossible ....after all :"The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams".Enjoy the poem:

रात यों कहने लगा मुझसे गगन का चाँद,

आदमी भी क्या अनोखा जीव होता है!

उलझनें अपनी बनाकर आप ही फँसता,

और फिर बेचैन हो जगता, न सोता है।

जानता है तू कि मैं कितना पुराना हूँ?

मैं चुका हूँ देख मनु को जनमते-मरते

और लाखों बार तुझ-से पागलों को भी

चाँदनी में बैठ स्वप्नों पर सही करते।

आदमी का स्वप्न?

है वह बुलबुला जल का आज बनता

और कल फिर फूट जाता हैकिन्तु,

फिर भी धन्य ठहरा आदमी ही तो?

बुलबुलों से खेलता, कविता बनाता है।

मैं न बोला किन्तु मेरी रागिनी बोली,

देख फिर से चाँद! मुझको जानता है तू?

स्वप्न मेरे बुलबुले हैं? है यही पानी?

आग को भी क्या नहीं पहचानता है तू?

मैं न वह जो स्वप्न पर केवल सही करते,

आग में उसको गला लोहा बनाता हूँ,

और उस पर नींव रखता हूँ नये घर की,

इस तरह दीवार फौलादी उठाता हूँ।

मनु नहीं, मनु-पुत्र है यह सामने,

जिसकीकल्पना की जीभ में भी धार होती है,

बाण ही होते विचारों के नहीं केवल,

स्वप्न के भी हाथ में तलवार होती है।

स्वर्ग के सम्राट को जाकर खबर कर दे-

रोज ही आकाश चढ़ते जा रहे हैं वे,

रोकिये, जैसे बने इन स्वप्नवालों को,

स्वर्ग की ही ओर बढ़ते आ रहे हैं वे।

- A poem by Ramdhari Singh 'Dinkar'

Reading Umberto Eco

Living is like tearing through a museum. Not until later do you really start absorbing what you saw, thinking about it, looking it up in a book, and remembering - because you can't take it in all at once.
--Audrey Hepburn

For long, I avoided Umberto Eco. I thought he is for the intellectuals with creased forehead and not for people like me. But finally I could not resist and read two of Eco’s novels in a row: The Name of the Rose and The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana . And I am surprised….The books are not what I thought they will be . Yes, they are full of learned, witty allusion, cupful of philosophy, psychology, history and literary criticism, mixed well with semiotics and post-modernism ..but then the flow of the story is unobstructed. There is a simple core as well in his books. They are, at heart, detective stories. And very fine detective stories that too. His first and best-known novel, The Name of the Rose, had a protagonist named after a Sherlock Holmes story, William Baskerville, who was looking for a murderer. The circumstances of the murder — a Benedictine monastery, medieval heresy and Aristotelian tradition — were merely Eco’s version of the study, Colonel Mustard and the lead-piping.

In The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana, the object of the quest is the hero himself. Giambattista Bodoni, known to all as Yambo, wakes up in a hospital, and doesn’t remember who he is. A doctor explains that he has lost his “autobiographical” memory (where we store our personal experience) while retaining his “public” memory, hence the ability to reel off facts, including, for example, the fact that his own name is that of a typographer of the Napoleonic age. The books he has read, the films he has watched, the music he has listened to can all be summoned to mind, but he can’t recognize his wife and children, and has no recollection of his past. On the plus side, he remembers languages, everyday routines such as tying a tie or driving a manual-shift car and copious quantities of trivia concerning movies, books and poetry. In effect, he knows all the things that other people know, but none of the things that are unique to him. He very aptly describes this new state of existence as, "My life as an encyclopedia."
The first thing that made me curious to pick up the book was not its storyline but its title. The book borrows its name from a picture book whose luscious heroine Bodoni rediscovers suspended in ''an incredibly slipshod narrative that lacks both charm and psychology.'' Another interesting aspect of the book was its status of an “illustrated Novel” . Well, this is the first illustrated novel I have read ( If you don’t count “The Little Prince” and Roald Dahl’s books of course !)..and I love the pictures of comics, posters , advertisements popping up in between the text . The novel is illustrated with reproductions of dust jackets, magazine and record covers, and cartoon strips. This technique is appealing to people like me who, like Carroll’s Alice, don’t see the “use of a book . . . without pictures or conversations”, but although many are striking, beautiful, or occasionally (as in the case of the racist propaganda posters) shocking, they are also apt to duplicate the efforts of careful description that fill the novel.

In the beginning the novel presents rather dull display of the disconcerting effects of a lifetime of reading, crowding in on an otherwise blank mind. But among the canonical quotations and references are phrases that seem to hint at more personal associations, for our hero. But the exact association he fails to make.

Taking his inspiration from Citizen Kane’s Rosebud, Yambo decides to spend several weeks in his old family home, in an attempt to discover whether any of the familial artifacts will help him to recover his memory. He rifles through boxes of old schoolbooks, newspapers, photo albums and diaries, and in the process, begins to relearn who he was. However, as author Umberto Eco points out, memory can be elusive at the best of times, and Yambo's task takes on surreal overtones as he redefines his life through the pop culture of his formative years. The chapters that follow are an initially random, then more orderly immersion in the adventure stories, magazines, comic books, newspapers, and religious and political tracts of his boyhood and adolescence.
In the novel's second section, set in what in effect becomes a museum of Yambo's childhood, the narrator begins to feel stirrings of who he is - but it is little more than a flame of excitement at the description in a pulp novel, a panel in a comic book, or the chorus of a popular song. Caught between the fog of his amnesia and the flame of his identity (or maybe it's the other way around), always with an eye on his blood pressure, Yambo reads his way closer and closer to the reality of who he is. Up and down the purgatorial corridors of memory he wanders. And wanders. Just when the reader may be tiring of all the days in the attic and the long catalogs of materials sorted through, the novel swings into its stunning third act, and all Yambo's homework pays off.
As much as anything, in its more serious moments, The Mysterious Flame is concerned with the foggy distinctions between fantasy and reality, between childhood and adulthood, and, as Yambo sometimes sadly sees himself, a lifetime of reading versus a lifetime of living. What Yambo finds at the end of his days, is that - fact or fiction - his life was made all the richer by his moving between those two ways of understanding the world, or, as he puts it, out of his books, "To build a world that is all mine." A world like that, suggests Eco, might be something very much like paradise.

Now I look forward to reading other books by Eco.

Nostalgia: Missing life of a small town

I came back from Lucknow few days back. As usual was in a depression for next 24 hours. I have heard about Kolkata that if you can survive the initial shock of it, you will fall in love with the city..but that never happened with me. This “Much admired, much abused- always wonderful” city failed to impress me. In fact, the moment I land at railway station/airport, the sight of old dilapidated unpainted buildings put me off. The bumps in the roads, the crowd and the harassed, anxious faces of people on street make me feel run back to my hometown.

May be it’s not the fault of this oldest and now most dense metro. May be for a small town person like me the ingredients of “good life” are essentially non-metro like. High-rise buildings and number of five star hotels is far less important than knowing names of all the trees of the campus and knowing when each one will bloom or shed leaves. Every time I visit Lucknow, I feel a part of me is left behind in that lovely house my parents built so painstakingly. No one lives in my parents house these days. Career compulsions forced all of us sisters out of the city and after my father’s death we can’t leave mom alone there.

But life is still the same over there. Neighbors meet frequently, are expected to know about each other. Youngsters address elders (even remote acquaintances) as chacha-bua-mausi-mami( various forms of uncle and aunts) . Language is much more polite and respectful even coming from rickshawwallas or shopkeepers. Though the ambition of making it big is catching on there as well, the hurried rush, the rude talk, and the unnecessary aggressiveness is still not there.

I miss the friendly talks of neighbours comparing each others gardens and lawns, families taking pride on the home grown guavas and papayas, shopkeepers remembering your first name even after years and many such things. Just drop in a middle class family house in the evening, you will be treated with home baked cake tried out from a recipe book by a teen age daughter…or may be some traditional sweet prepared after hours of preparation by the lady of the house…if nothing else one boy will be dispatched promptly to get some particularly famous kulfi/sweet/snack from the shop round the corner. Perhaps no other city can match the unique culture of Lucknow, a city with almost equal Hindu and Muslim population. A city which never saw the Hindu muslim riots in first four decades of Independence. I find it strange that in non-Muslim families in other cities Eid goes unnoticed. I can’t recall a single Eid when we did not had siwaiyyen: at our home and at friend’s . It was only when I came out of Lucknow that I realized that the language I speak is not Hindi but ‘Hindustani’ as it has equal number of Urdu words too. The ‘tehzeeb’ with which we are expected to behave and the famous mannerisms of Lucknow are considered “too formal and artificial” in other cities.

And here in Kolkata , at times in late evenings I lookout from my balcony on 5th floor and wonder if the creatures down there on the street are worried about the maid not turned up or may be the person just missed the last bus to home and had to shell out a lot of money on taxi or they are thinking about another tiring weekday tomorrow. My life here can be summed up in very few words: Getting up, getting ready, breakfast, office, cooking , TV, sleeping. I get to see the colours of evenings only in weekends as by the time I come back from work it is already night. And I am not alone in this kind of life , most others are slogging like me too …even worse , if you take into account those youngsters working in IT companies. They don’t even know what pleasures they are missing of that leisurely life. Even weekends offer no respite for them. For me weekends are meant for numerous works piling on for days plumber/electrician , compulsory social calls and yes, that is only time when I have to do my shopping for the coming week.
Talking of shopping- one of life’s great pleasures, I miss that too over here. You don’t get the feel of bargaining unless it is done in your mother tongue and that handicap in this foreign land makes me feel miserable. Even otherwise, shopping from mall is no fun. Even after three years I keep confusing names of everyday utilities in the grocery shops, there is no concept of ‘trusted’ shopkeeper –as almost all shops are new for me . Getting to a place itself takes so much time that you don’t feel like shopping with full spirit. Traffic jams, parking regulations, occasional bandhs-political rallies and the old weary congested look of most old markets make me cry for my city of nawabs , which still maintains its love for leisurely, laid back and yet exceptionally hospitable attitude—despite hordes of politicians and business men corrupting it . The city may be now in news for all the wrong reasons but on a micro level it is a very happy very livable city . The most wonderful part of the Lukhnavi culture is that it will embrace everything modern but will give it a tinge of its own colour. Long back someone explained to me that why it is called Ganga-jamuni culture….its not only that it is located in the delta land of the two great rivers but also that like Ganga and Yamuna (Jamuna for localites) it is a mixture of two very different colours---take that for Hindu or Muslim or for new and old , hindi and urdu or may be for liberal yet conservative attitude. Today when I enter in a very modern look ,Air conditioned Chikankari shop in famous Hazratganj and am greeted by the traditional “ Aayiye bitiya aayiye, tashrif laiye ..” I know I have come home.

Perils of Statistics in India: A tale of Rhino Park in Hooghly district

This story was narrated by a journalist friend , who recently came to Calcutta on his way to Nandigram (in Hooghly district): the place where forced land acquisition has made an embarrassing issue for the ruling party.

This is the funniest story I have heard about Statistics, and though as a student of statistics I am quite proud of the subject , I am forced to remember the saying " Lies , damn lies and statistics …….."

The story goes like this. A forest officer posted in Hooghly district of West Bengal got a communication from his superiors from the state capital to make a proposal for a National Park for Rhinos in Hooghly. The letter quoted a well known national report on wildlife where the district was noted to have a population of about 12 Rhinos. This forest officer, a local fellow was bit surprised by the figures as he had never seen or heard of a rhino is nearby region. He asked for the copy of the report as yes, his district was listed there for having a population of 12 rhinos. Curious by these strange statistics, he confirmed from his local sources but nobody had ever heard of a rhino in the nearby area. He reported this back and an investigation was carried out as to how a reputed survey is giving such nonsensical statistics. And guess what it was!!

Well, we Indians are known for our love of English: correct or incorrect, every educated person feels that English is the medium to impress the world. These statistics are usually collected by a questionnaire which is forwarded to each panchayat and it is a lowly village panchayat functionary who will be filling it up. So a rather educated Bengali Bhadralok sincerely filled up one such questionnaire about livestock in the village and mentioned Ducks, goose and Gander (male goose) separately. Another educated babu at the state HQ while compiling the data from various villages saw that only one panchayat has sent number of Ganders . Not aware with this English word, he decided that this must be number of Gondar( Rhinos in Bangla) and cursing the spelling mistake and lack of knowledge in the Panchayat fellow about the English word for gondar " corrected" the entry. Thus 12 rhinos in Hooghly district were born!! Needless to say, no one cross checked the data and the data got printed in the national report . While going through the data, the high officials in Forest departments decided to have a National Park for Rhinos, without doubting the data for a second.
So, here is the message for all of you, who rely on data from reputed sources blindly. Do not put your faith in what statistics say until you have carefully considered what they do not say. Never lose your common sense while going through a Statistician's report or else we will have many more Rhino parks in this country.