Michael’s Kolkata Pilgrimage
The year was 2001. Forget drinking water for
all, forget education for all—what Bengal wanted was Michael Jackson for all.
The city was intoxicated with pop hysteria. From nine to ninety, the whole
population trembled in excitement. The thermometer was rising faster than any
election rhetoric. The countdown had begun.
At the earnest request of West Bengal’s grand old Marxist patriarch, Chief Minister Jyoti Basu, and through the courtesy of his London-based capitalist friend Swaraj Paul (Indira Gandhi’s biographer, no less), the world’s No. 1 pop star—singer, dancer, demi-god—Michael Joseph Jackson descended upon the City of Joy in the biting cold of January. And from the moment his jet touched down, he made the top brass of Bengal’s Left Front tap their feet to “Black or White.” Suddenly, Michael’s pop songs were no longer capitalist jingles—they were revolution.
The Revolutionary Moonwalk
By 22 January, 1:30 p.m., Jackson’s chartered plane landed at Dumdum Airport with an entourage of 250. Already waiting outside was a massive rally of Michael-fan comrades, led by Subhas Chakraborty. The slogans rent the air: Inquilab Zindabad! Comrade Michael Jackson, Lal Salaam! Lal Salaam! Thousands wore red caps emblazoned with Michael’s name, sponsored—ironically—by multinational corporations.
The ceremonial welcome was a study in surrealism. Former Miss Universe Sushmita Sen slipped a garland over Michael’s neck; legendary actress Suchitra Sen applied sandal paste to his forehead. Cameras flashed as Jackson leaned in to whisper something into Suchitra’s ear. She laughed. He laughed. The photographers nearly killed one another. Had Elizabeth Taylor’s lover just fallen for Bengal’s matinee idol?
From there, Michael’s motorcade sped straight to Indira Bhavan. Inside Jyoti Basu’s living room, the historic moment unfolded: the Marxist titan handed Jackson a hammer-and-sickle memento—and a Bengali translation of Das Kapital. Jackson, thrilled, declared in broken English, “Das means slave. Black man. This is the story of the struggle of a black man. I like it!” Jyoti Babu smiled faintly, and nodded to Subhas, “Take care of him properly. And don’t forget to tell him of all the work we are doing for the people.”
Protest and Purity
Of course, not everyone was pleased. A group of “Democratic Artists” sat on dharna, denouncing Jackson as obscenity incarnate. Rumor had it Culture Minister Buddhadeb Bhattacharya himself had discreetly blessed their agitation. Mamata Banerjee, ever the disruptor, thundered: “Farmers are dying without food, teachers go unpaid, unemployment soars, Bengal lags behind the nation—and this government squanders public funds on a vulgar pop show? I will not attend!” To which Party ideologue Anil Biswas retorted, “Don’t listen to mad people. Isn’t it obscene when she herself dances on the bonnet of a car?”
The Ritual of Poverty
Meanwhile, Jackson was ferried to the Missionaries of Charity, as all foreigners must be. He met the Sisters, lifted malnourished children in Khidderpore slums, distributed chocolates stamped with his name. The Wall Street Journal and New York Times journalists brawled to capture the spectacle. Tomorrow’s headlines were assured: MJ Plays with Slum Children in the City of Joy. But the ultimate scoop belonged to Anandabazar Patrika: Jackson with a runny-nosed slum child. Proof, if any was needed, that Bengal still led the world in authenticity.
The Grand Show
By evening, Jackson was checked into the Taj Bengal under the protective gaze of Comrade Jacki-da, keeper of Bengal’s cultural revolution. The show’s profits, it was announced, would be divided three ways: one-third to Mother Teresa’s Missionaries, one-third to the Chief Minister’s Relief Fund, and the remainder to the Youth Welfare Board at Alimuddin Street. Even the Left’s leading historian, Pabitra Sarkar, wrote a breathless editorial in Ganashakti on “How Revolutionary Comrade Michael Jackson Spread Marxism in Capitalist America.”
The state government declared the concert tax-free. The Transport Minister waived bus fares for three days: “How can we charge comrades to see another comrade?”
By dusk, the Salt Lake Stadium overflowed. Cadres roamed the aisles, keeping the crowds in order. Jyoti Basu arrived with family, beaming from the VIP box. Buddhadeb and Mamata stayed away.
Then—the moment. A parachute descended from the sky. Onto the stage landed Michael Jackson, clad first in a white Bengali dhoti-panjabi, which, through the magic of lights, peeled away to reveal steel-plated pop armor. The crowd roared. He began with “We Shall Overcome,” then moved through his classics. And finally, in a delirious climax, he sang “I Am a Disco Dancer” with Bengal’s own Michael Jackson, Mithun Chakraborty. The gallery exploded. Even the Marxist elders forgot their ideology and danced. For one sleepless night, Kolkata belonged not to Marx or Tagore, but to MJ.
The Aftermath
Outside Bengal, the mood was less euphoric. Bal Thackeray, the BJP, and Congress leaders alike denounced the spectacle as cultural corruption. Even within the Left, young cadres muttered uneasily. Asked about the criticism, Jyoti Basu shrugged in his inimitable way: “People will always talk. If I listened, I’d have to sit in your newsroom instead of Writers’ Building.”
Before leaving India, Jackson scrawled on the glass of his Taj Bengal suite: I Love You Kolkata. The City of Pain. Years later, asked what he meant, he replied:
“I danced five hours in a stadium of 1.2 million capacity, in sultry January summer. And an old man gave me a book of the most painful story of a slave. That book was the Das Kapital.”
At the earnest request of West Bengal’s grand old Marxist patriarch, Chief Minister Jyoti Basu, and through the courtesy of his London-based capitalist friend Swaraj Paul (Indira Gandhi’s biographer, no less), the world’s No. 1 pop star—singer, dancer, demi-god—Michael Joseph Jackson descended upon the City of Joy in the biting cold of January. And from the moment his jet touched down, he made the top brass of Bengal’s Left Front tap their feet to “Black or White.” Suddenly, Michael’s pop songs were no longer capitalist jingles—they were revolution.
The Revolutionary Moonwalk
By 22 January, 1:30 p.m., Jackson’s chartered plane landed at Dumdum Airport with an entourage of 250. Already waiting outside was a massive rally of Michael-fan comrades, led by Subhas Chakraborty. The slogans rent the air: Inquilab Zindabad! Comrade Michael Jackson, Lal Salaam! Lal Salaam! Thousands wore red caps emblazoned with Michael’s name, sponsored—ironically—by multinational corporations.
The ceremonial welcome was a study in surrealism. Former Miss Universe Sushmita Sen slipped a garland over Michael’s neck; legendary actress Suchitra Sen applied sandal paste to his forehead. Cameras flashed as Jackson leaned in to whisper something into Suchitra’s ear. She laughed. He laughed. The photographers nearly killed one another. Had Elizabeth Taylor’s lover just fallen for Bengal’s matinee idol?
From there, Michael’s motorcade sped straight to Indira Bhavan. Inside Jyoti Basu’s living room, the historic moment unfolded: the Marxist titan handed Jackson a hammer-and-sickle memento—and a Bengali translation of Das Kapital. Jackson, thrilled, declared in broken English, “Das means slave. Black man. This is the story of the struggle of a black man. I like it!” Jyoti Babu smiled faintly, and nodded to Subhas, “Take care of him properly. And don’t forget to tell him of all the work we are doing for the people.”
Protest and Purity
Of course, not everyone was pleased. A group of “Democratic Artists” sat on dharna, denouncing Jackson as obscenity incarnate. Rumor had it Culture Minister Buddhadeb Bhattacharya himself had discreetly blessed their agitation. Mamata Banerjee, ever the disruptor, thundered: “Farmers are dying without food, teachers go unpaid, unemployment soars, Bengal lags behind the nation—and this government squanders public funds on a vulgar pop show? I will not attend!” To which Party ideologue Anil Biswas retorted, “Don’t listen to mad people. Isn’t it obscene when she herself dances on the bonnet of a car?”
The Ritual of Poverty
Meanwhile, Jackson was ferried to the Missionaries of Charity, as all foreigners must be. He met the Sisters, lifted malnourished children in Khidderpore slums, distributed chocolates stamped with his name. The Wall Street Journal and New York Times journalists brawled to capture the spectacle. Tomorrow’s headlines were assured: MJ Plays with Slum Children in the City of Joy. But the ultimate scoop belonged to Anandabazar Patrika: Jackson with a runny-nosed slum child. Proof, if any was needed, that Bengal still led the world in authenticity.
The Grand Show
By evening, Jackson was checked into the Taj Bengal under the protective gaze of Comrade Jacki-da, keeper of Bengal’s cultural revolution. The show’s profits, it was announced, would be divided three ways: one-third to Mother Teresa’s Missionaries, one-third to the Chief Minister’s Relief Fund, and the remainder to the Youth Welfare Board at Alimuddin Street. Even the Left’s leading historian, Pabitra Sarkar, wrote a breathless editorial in Ganashakti on “How Revolutionary Comrade Michael Jackson Spread Marxism in Capitalist America.”
The state government declared the concert tax-free. The Transport Minister waived bus fares for three days: “How can we charge comrades to see another comrade?”
By dusk, the Salt Lake Stadium overflowed. Cadres roamed the aisles, keeping the crowds in order. Jyoti Basu arrived with family, beaming from the VIP box. Buddhadeb and Mamata stayed away.
Then—the moment. A parachute descended from the sky. Onto the stage landed Michael Jackson, clad first in a white Bengali dhoti-panjabi, which, through the magic of lights, peeled away to reveal steel-plated pop armor. The crowd roared. He began with “We Shall Overcome,” then moved through his classics. And finally, in a delirious climax, he sang “I Am a Disco Dancer” with Bengal’s own Michael Jackson, Mithun Chakraborty. The gallery exploded. Even the Marxist elders forgot their ideology and danced. For one sleepless night, Kolkata belonged not to Marx or Tagore, but to MJ.
The Aftermath
Outside Bengal, the mood was less euphoric. Bal Thackeray, the BJP, and Congress leaders alike denounced the spectacle as cultural corruption. Even within the Left, young cadres muttered uneasily. Asked about the criticism, Jyoti Basu shrugged in his inimitable way: “People will always talk. If I listened, I’d have to sit in your newsroom instead of Writers’ Building.”
Before leaving India, Jackson scrawled on the glass of his Taj Bengal suite: I Love You Kolkata. The City of Pain. Years later, asked what he meant, he replied:
“I danced five hours in a stadium of 1.2 million capacity, in sultry January summer. And an old man gave me a book of the most painful story of a slave. That book was the Das Kapital.”
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