Durga Puja Diaries — 2
That Time Of The Year
“Mama, are you going to write about Durga puja this year?” Adi asks.
“Nah!” I am pretty confident. “Don’t know if I’ll have anything new.”
“And anyone can write on the internet anyways.” Adi says.
Kids nowadays, they know too much. And better to enjoy the puja with a free mind rather than make a homework assignment out of it. But puja is still days away. Can use this time to focus on the trinity of a true Bengali man— tea, tobacco, and Tagore. Well, may be not all of it, a third will do.
On a bus to Lalbazaar, annual tea pilgrimage. The bus starts accelerating before I can find a proper foothold, driven by a burst of sudden inspiration. The grip of my sweaty palms on the rod overhead starts slipping. Then the equally unexpected screeching brakes, body slipping in the opposite direction. And the cycle continues… The boy sitting in front of me swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He reclines his head back with eyes closed, swinging back and forth with the bus, weight of the world on his shoulder. Looks like a student, math books peeking from his bag. I want to place my hand on his shoulder and say “Don’t worry dude, one day you’ll be happy and fat, trust me…”. Before I can do any such thing, he opens his eyes in alarm and leans towards the window, something rising from his stomach about to make its way out. But nothing happens, he goes back to his meditation.
Fortunately I find a seat away from him. A good view of the city as the bus inches through Maniktala. Bamboo scaffolds everywhere in preparation for the pandals. Trying hard to catch a glimpse of the pujas. On second thoughts, can hardly see the city. Everything is covered up by giant, back-to-back billboards. Varun Dhawan has most exposure with Lux Cozi underwear, followed by Pierce Brosnan and his Paan Bahar, and then Saurav Ganguly hawking… Captain Rod??
The musky aroma makes my knees weak as I approach the tea shop. The customary wait to get to the counter, then I rattle off my order. The list this time includes an unknown beast — Darjeeling green tea. Big boss takes notice and shows personal interest. Stopping the packaging mid way, he takes a whiff from few of the samples, nods satisfactorily and the packaging continues. I walk out proudly carrying seven varities of tea. Tobacco and Tagore to be tackled another day.
Chaturthi
Deadly heat wave on the prowl. Chatter of second summer and humidity everywhere. Pihu comes wearing the sparkly pink skirt I got for her, little silver bells tinkling around her ankles. But before I can locate my phone to take a snap, she is down to her diapers. “Offf! Ki gorom” she declares lying under the fan.
Watching replay of the India-Australia Kolkata one day to get past the morning. The Australians are panting like dogs, looking around as if they don’t trust their eyes. The bowlers call for bottles of water, and instead of drinking, pour it over their heads. The Indian batsmen have a suppressed smile. The Australians are literally melting and the commentators can’t hide their glee. I can’t hide my glee.
Aakash, Adi and I take off to check the pulse of the nearby pujas. The short walk to cross Ultadanga station seems unending. The three of us are leaking like cloth bags carrying water. Shouldn’t have laughed at the Australians. Swift street justice, Kolkata style.
First on the list, Telengabagan. Theme - lost childhood. Pictures of child labor throughout the pandal, from picking garbage to coal mines. Durga inside has a touch of clay dolls, putul, like the ones I remember seeing many years ago. I feel ambushed, 10K p.s.i pressure on my chest. All this when I know very well I’m not going to, as they say in bangla, move a leaf from here to there on account of child labor. Then why this reaction? I’m confused at myself.
Aakash, Adi and I move on to Surirbagan, and a string of pujas near Ultadanga next. But we are not really watching anymore, just stumbling silently from pandal to pandal, dripping sweat by the buckets, wondering who will be the first one to call it quits.
A round of Frooti, and a ride on the auto-rickshaw provides some relief. Momentarily recharged. We decide to give Dumdum Park a shot. Preparations at Yubak Brinda is still ongoing. We pay our respects to the Durga inspired by Kalighat paintings. Close by is Dumdum Park Sarbojanin, a traditional Durga in bright indigo. The shade of the pandal, all the indigo, it somehow has a calming effect. But our breaks are getting longer and frequent.
The one I really want to see is Tarun Dal. Last year the lines were too long, no matter what hour we went. As we turn the corner of chawal patty, the familiar sight once again, a long line snaking all the way back. I can’t believe it. Aakash and Adi are also at the end of their strength. We head home.
Panchami
No venturing out today, I’m not that insane. Instead, staying home for a quick refresher on family feuds from mom. All the finer points spanning half a century. I can see where I get the capacity to remember incidents.
Enjoying the puja in a more sustainable way — surf the local TV channels. A tour of all the barowari pujas is on. The face of the TV host is glistening with sweat as she describes some of the colonial past of these pujas. I am lying under the fan wondering if my tea leaves are dying.
Evening, all of us decide to head towards the movie theater instead of the pandals, atleast there will be air conditioning. On the agenda is the latest thriller, Yeti Obhijaan. The air conditioning is cranked up so high, all of us are shivering. Appropriate for a Yeti chase I guess. Mom has her sari wrapped around her head, Adi is hiding under a tote bag. “But how will you make it to the Everst?” A sherpa asks Kaka babu noticing his limp and walking stick. “One doesn’t climb Everest by the strength of the body”, Kaka babu replies, “One climbs it by the strength of mind.” Solid bangla funda. The movie is just a framing, Kaka babu is of course, speaking to me. And I was not up to the task of pandal hopping this year, not in body, not in mind.
Shasti
More heat. More channel surfing. There is talk of making Durga puja “world class”. Just like the Rio carnival. Clean up this dump called Kolkata, show everyone what puja really is. Issue tourists special passes. Paint the road dividers afresh.
The aspiration makes sense. But the gap between reality and aspiration is just stark. Kolkata looks old and filthy, even by Indian standards. Kolkata…is dying, don’t they get it? But then what brings me here? Am I fooling myself in romanticizing the puja, ignoring all the mess around? Just like the rest of the pretenses?
Aami ke? Aami kothay? Who am I? Where am I? The biraat proshno, big questions, swirl in my head like those of a peejjaa delivery boy in a notun para. Brain is turning to aloo sheddho, the heat is showing its true effects.
Shaptami
Morning tea with mom and dad. I mention how the bangla word for tea, Cha, is the exact word in Chinese.
“Offf, rakh to!” Mom says, she’s done with my tea stories. “Just drink it!”
I snap out of my stupor. Too much thinking, too little action. Damn all the biraat proshno. Retreat is not an option. If I left the puja here today, where will I escape to? Paris? Milan? What do I expect the frescos to say to me? “Poser, you couldn’t even see the beauty of Durga, what have you come here for?” Someone creates those idols that move me in unexpected ways. So, I’m going to check out what they did this year. Everything else can go to hell.
“Ma, aajke chalo!” I tell Mom. The heavens respond. Inky black clouds cover the sky. It gets so dark, we have to switch on the lights. I had forgotten what real rain looked like. XXL drops pour down from above. I get wet just sitting by the window, a cool spray rising from the raindrops on the windowsill.
“But in this rain?” Mom asks.
“We’ll take umbrellas.” I say.
So mom and I are finally out on the late saptami afternoon. I feel like I have been called in to bowl the middle overs instead of the opening ones. Still.
We start by tackling Tarun Dal. Even in the rain the ever present line. But the line moves quickly and we make it within twenty minutes. The pandal is decorated with fishermen’s equipments, a gigantic boat at the entrance. Inside a very unique expression on durga. I feel like those big eyes and smile are saying, “Don’t worry, I know it…”.
It’s drizzling a little. Mom and I make our way towards Bharat Chakra. There is Kumar Sanu blaring from one of the small pandals. Who is playing this pre-historic stuff? Something bursts open inside the chest, memories come oozing out of it — days of roaming the streets, Kumar Sanu playing in a loop inside the head, weight of the world on shoulders. “Tu pyar hai kisi aur ka, Tujhe chahta koi aur hai…”
Bharat Chakra is dazzling as ever. The pandal, a lattice of wooden toys from Orissa. The security guards have to push the crowds along. The protima looks inspired by Mughal paintings, the slate color adding a touch of noir.
Last on the list is Tarun Sangha. The streets have turned into a fairground, lined by food stalls. Ubiquitous everywhere is dimsums, aka momo. People have lined up in the rain to get their fill. I wonder what people in China would make of this:
Tarun Shangha has a surprise in store — a blending of Durga with Gujarat. Folk paintings of Gujarat line the pandal gallery. Mahishasur is rather cheerful at being slain, in fact looks all ready for dandiya.
Mom and I leave happy. Yes, puja is on. Tomorrow we shall conquer the south.
Ashtami
We are up before sunrise and out of the house at daybreak. Venturing out this early means you get to sample the very fresh batch of …dogshit. By afternoon it’ll be smeared all across the road, a nameless dry paste. But early morning you get to leave your mark on something shapely and moist. Mom is extra vigilant, yanking me left, yanking me right. With the expertise of Maradona, she dribbles me past the minefield to reach the bus stop and soon we are on an empty bus.
The bus driver rushes through the deserted roads like he has only minutes left to live. The whole bus creaks and shudders, it’s about to fall apart. Mom and I hold on to the seats with both hands. We are only too glad when we get off at Rashbehari More.
“Wonder what they have done this year” Mom says as we approach Badamtola Ashar Shangha. The sequence along Rashbehari Avenue was one of the highlights last year, led by Badamtola. Shouldn’t compare to last year, I tell myself. In fact, go with zero expectations, what can possibly go wrong then?
Well, what can go wrong is those zero expectations sometimes come true. Badamtola has done something to do with America, I see the flag, something that resembles the statue, but what’s all this about? Last year I couldn’t stop taking pictures. This year the phone remains in my pocket.
The same ailment seems to have struck their neighbors 66 Pally as well. There are various figures but their gender, age or purpose in life remains a mystery. Neither Mom nor me can make any sense of it. There is an explanation near the pandal gate about what all this is about, but it’s in Braille.
“Don’t worry” Mom says, “The weekend newspaper has descriptions of all the major pujas.”
A little disappointed, we walk towards Chetla Agroni. On the way a sweet shop with a sizeable crowd outside it. What’s happening this early? Shingara aka samosa. Perfect time for breakfast. As I bite into the warm samosa, the reason for the crowd becomes clear. This is no ordinary samosa, the potato filling inside is …sweet? And the crust outside is flaky like that of a crossiant. A cross between luchi-aloo and samosa. Sheer genius. I end up having three.
Spirits revived, we land at Chetla Agroni. I look at the protima, and I’m totally stumped. Durga has been framed like…Natraj? Oh well, ten hands here, ten hands there. I say my prayers, click a few snaps and move along. But then, what is this behind Durga? Another, larger Durga?? A sudden lightening bolt strikes, laying bare my stupidity. I had entered the pandal from the opposite direction and saw the back of the protima first. The Natraj was actually Natraj.
“Doesn’t look like clay” Mom says.
“Maahogaani!” A teenage volunteer proudly declares.
Just exquisite carving, I have seen this style before, but can’t recall the name. In terms of sheer beauty, this one ranks #1 for me.
“Shall we try Mudiali?” Mom asks. It’s a little detour from Rashbehari Ave, but we are doing good on time. So onwards we go.
And oh! Are we glad we came! The protima — a traditional Durga, exuding a calm confidence like no other. But the stunning part is the pandal, shaped like a majestic palenquin made of cane, carried by giant bearers who can hold your attention on their own.
Both of us have the feeling of mission accomplished. Anything more we see now will be bonus. And we still have couple of big ones left.
On our way we hit the Shib Mandir puja. The pandal is a bit different, looks like it has a “basement” section. Sound of waterfall. Nice, but why? And is that Durga in duplicate, one upside down? I stare at it for a few seconds. Suddenly mind blown. I see it now, illusion of an illusion. The whole ensemble looks like Durga floating on water.
From the high point we are at after Chetla Agroni, Mudiali and Shib Mandir, things can only go down. And they do.
Ballygonge Cultural has done some elaborate bronze thingy. Spared no expense it seems. But the whole thing is perhaps missing… a soul? Each of the gods and godesses have their own circular chamber. Mom is disturbed by it. “Looks like they had a fight amongst themselves.” She says.
Tridhara next is grand, a landscape that reminds of Bladerunner. The theme is mother nature rising in the face of man’s greed. The expression on Durga is a little menacing. Giant skyscrapers everywhere. A closer look reveals a stack of discarded cigarette packs, biscuit and shampoo packages, small plastic cases. There was something utterly dark about the Tridhara puja last year. And even this year I feel some of it. Whoever is behind these designs is probably a troubled soul.
Finally the big draw, Deshapriya Park. The sun is now high in the sky, and things are beginning to get out of control. The pandal is some winter palace out of Thailand/China, not sure. We can’t get to the protima, all the routes are barricaded. A portly man with his family is arguing with a security guard at the entrance. “I have VIP passes!” the man flashes some papers which look like magazine cutouts. A seventeen year old in a silk kurta stops by, one of the puja overlords. He takes one look at the VIP pass, then dismisses the man away with a sway of his hand. “I told you,” he scolds the security guard, “Members only!”
Mom and I keep traveling along Rashbehari Avenue, catching a few more till Bosepukur. The sun has become unbearable now, time to head home. As we get down the bus at Keshtopur, mom decides to go by one last. This is a small puja near the bus stop that she comes to every year. They don’t disappoint this year as well. Durga is molded after a Baul theme. Indeed, there is something serene and sanyasi about this one.
At home, recounting the day to dad. I show him the cane work at Mudiali. “When we first came here”, Dad says referring to the India Pakistan partition, “that was the only way to survive in the (refugee) camp, make stuff from hogla pata. Because hogla pata was free, from the swamps surrounding the camp.” End of story. That’s what bothers me, stories of the refugee camp end in two sentences. The camps could never raise someone who would tell their story.
Nabami
Mom and I agree, Durga puja is not done without a tour of the North. Aakash and Adi join in. Late morning and we all are at Ahiritola.
When I go through pujas in the rest of the city, I can sense their source of inspiration. Some driven by folk art, some the result of brainstorming on a concept, others inspired by hit pujas of previous years. But the protimas at Ahiritola-Kumortoli consistently defy my attempts at labeling. They seem like the work of someone who’s driven by something else altogether… devotion? That anchor allows them to produce these subtle, but unique variations. When I look at them, I can’t pinpoint why they have a grip over me. But there it is.
From Ahiritola we stroll over to some of the nearby pandals. The theme at the current one is our staggering addiction to the internet. Plugged in idols have turned to bots, selfie crazed groups have transformed to donkeys and pigs, I think that duck at the center might be me. Even Shib and Parvati are glued to their smartphones. What insight! I quickly take some snaps and post it over Whatsapp.
The four of us wander from one puja to the next, the drizzle starts, and then stops. I’m sweating even as it rains, there is a tussle between the city and me, who will drench whom. We take a lunch break at one of the sweet shops. Malai cham-cham, kheer kadam, kamala bhog, sandesh… a lunch of 22 carat sugar.
Refueled, we charge towards Kumortoli Park. Like last year, there is a touch of north India in the protima, I see elements of Lakshmi, but in perfect harmony with the hallmark signs of Durga.
We are trying to find our way to Kumortoli Sarbojanin. An old woman sits at a street corner, combing her daughter’s hair that stretch up to the waists. She suggests we take a little detour instead, to Gossain Para. Durga at Gossain Para is superimposed on a rupee coin, riding the tiger of the Reserve Bank of India. The pandal itself is decorated with hundereds of clay piggy banks. Someone has attempted to shield Durga with a “no selfies” signboard. Groups huddle around it merrily to take snaps.
Mom is very happy. We thank the old woman on our way back and she responds with a generous smile.
The Sova Bazaar Durga, extremely pretty, reminds me of someone actually... Ah, it’s the younger sister of the Telengabagan Durga.
Finally at Kumortoli Sarbojonin. A Durga that ranks #1 for originality. Something intensely youthful about her. Eyes sparkling with curiosity, shoulders open in defiance. An interview of the artisans of Kumortoli comes to mind, they were talking about how they view Durga as their daughter, and Durga puja a daughter’s homecoming. That spirit seems to dominates this Durga, she’s less of a mother here. It also reflects the current mood that’s simmering everywhere. She is less of a mother who’s always blessing and giving, but more a daughter rising, about to assert her place. Mahishasur is hanging upside down, like Betaal. But that’s no problem, this Durga is aiming high.
There is more to be explored beyond Kumortoli, but it’s late afternoon. Mom’s feet are sore with blisters from the new sandals. Adi and Aakash look tired as well. To catch the bus back, we decide to take a shortcut from Kumortoli to Ahiritola along the river banks, avoiding the puja traffic.
My back to the city, the vast river stretches in front of me, as far as the eye can see. I feel the awe that must have filled the early settlers, who started it all. There is a reason so many choose the river banks to reflect upon things.
As I try to piece together everything I saw, a three part story of Durga puja starts forming. The beginning, with the colonial puja. Patronized by those who were patronized by the English. Then the communist puja, taking the colonial puja mainstream by involving the para. Essentially mass imitation of the prestigious barowari pujas. These are the pujas of childhood memories, all of them looked pretty much the same. And finally the modern day corporate puja. Fueled by display ads, product placements, TV channel ratings, selfies. This is the spectacle. It’s all tradition, but also a living, growing, adapting entity.
And the news of Kolkata’s death are greatly exaggerated. I just had to open my eyes and accept what was in front of me, on the streets. Of course, the Kolkata of colonial powerhouses is dying. The Kolkata of post independence industrial elite is dying. That lineage is also most likely to produce someone capable of writing about Kolkata, so all accounts are full of nostalgia. But a new Kolkata is taking its place, a Kolkata of hustle. Who knows where it all leads, but Kolkata is not dying as much as it is evolving.
But then — Aami ke? Aami kothay? Maybe I had come here to earn my nostalgia. But now I see that club is “members only”, and I’m not part of it. Neither am I part of the hustle. I’m too far, too privileged. But now I’ve some semblance of an answer — there is no home for the wicked. But in time, they will have tales of their journey.
The road along the river is secluded and lined with big trees. The rain has washed over the whole area, leaving little puddles. One can hear the faint drums of the Kumortoli pujas in a distance. We keep walking silently, tired but content. My return flight is looming 48 hours away. I reconsider Adi’s question — will you write about Durga puja this year? Now I do have something to write about this year. I feel there will always be something to write each year. Just as there will always be new faces, who will come to this festival by the river, to renew these bonds afresh.
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