Durga Puja Diaries — 3
Prologue
1, 2,… seems inevitable, 3.
But what if 3 doesn’t turn out as planned? What if I’m not able to elevate the writing in 3, what’s the point of writing then?
Saptami
The sky outside is pale, must be close to morning. I get out of bed and check my phone. 2:30 am. That light grayish sky, must be the city lights and the low level clouds. After some tossing and turning in bed, I give up and sit by the window, waiting for everyone to wake up.
Finally time for breakfast. Mishti doi, chire, and special ingredient from Baba, chaunsa aam kept frozen from July. Ma, Barnali, Yody, Obi, everyone is ready. We pack some umbrellas, water bottles, and off we go. Today’s target, North Kolkata. The taxi to Ahiritola was doing fine until it got to Hatibagan. Even early in the morning there is a slight jam. “Most people get off at Hatibagan, and see the pujas on foot from here…” A suggestion from the driver which I promptly ignore, getting off at Ahiritola a few minutes later.
First stop, Ahiritola Yubak Brinda. No one is near the pandal, doubts creep in whether I’ve come to the right place or got the location messed up. But one look at the protima inside settles it. An exceptionally youthful Durga, as if sliding down from heaven, the boat might as well be a skateboard. There is a sense of motion here.
We start making our way towards the big one at Ahiritola, passing by Uttam Kumar’s birthplace. No one except me is interested in taking a snap. Suddenly three girls burst onto the scene, probably college friends, chatting and laughing, carrying light golden puri aalu in saal pata bowls. Barnali is looking for the source of the puri aalu. Stomach is full, but dil hai ki maanta hai. Somehow we gain control of ourselves, and push through the crowd on BK Paul Ave to reach Ahiritola Sarbojanin. This year’s theme is some red stone temple, looks like inspired by Khajuraho. As always, what you see at Ahiritola, you can’t see anywhere else. All the elements of durga are retained, yet it looks like a genuine Khajuraho sculpture.
As we come out of the pandal, a procession emerges from the Ganga ghat side. A man walking barefoot carrying a brass kolshi full of water on his head is followed by a marching band, playing an ear splitting combo of drums and trumpet. Can’t tell whether we are following the band, or the band is following us, as we walk together down BK Paul Ave. The procession ends at a puja off the road. The protima is pretty, but the band is about to burst open everyone’s brain, so we leave quickly. Mom remembers some nearby puja that had impressed her last time, so we go hunting for it, peeking into the by lanes. When we locate it, it justifies the search. The pandal in particular is impressive, with various art forms made out of loops of rubber strips, including silhouettes of Ram and Hanuman.
So many pujas, so little time, and so many of them not even on the map. What to do? But combing through the streets of old Calcutta is not for everyone. I decide against pushing Yody and Obi too far on the first day and head to Kumortuli Park, to cover the major ones at least.
From the outside the Kumortuli Park pandal looks like a giant rocket, ready to fire off from Cape Canaveral. But inside a surprise, instead of astronauts, aliens farming mysterious mushrooms. Thankfully the Durga protima is still of this world, a petite doll like, which for lack of a better word I call Manipuri Durga.
We come back to Rabindra Sarani and take a daab break before heading towards Kumortuli Sarbojanin. But before we can reach there, a torrent of rain. We take refuge in front of a Shib mandir, along with few other passerby. Thunders grumble above. A woman with matted hair and a torn sari sits begging at the entrance of the mandir. Few minutes later, a man in a clean shirt and lungi appears with two cups of tea, hands one to the beggar woman and urges her to take a break. A constant stream of people passing under the covered pathway make it difficult to stand in peace. Tired of waiting, we take out the umbrellas and walk into the rain. The rain stops soon after. Black water runs through overflowing drains on both sides of the streets. A man coming from the opposite side carrying a basket of carrots slips his foot, spilling all his carrots into the drain. He stares at the carrots for a few seconds, mutters some inaudible curses, then dipping his hands into the drain gathers all the carrots and makes his way. “Freshly picked carrots”, Barnali says with a smile.
Faces with swollen cheeks adorn the pandal of Kumortuli Sarbojanin, Yody names them the guava people. Last time the protima here was overall the best one I saw in the entire puja. This time it’s the same, simply #1. A very different look, but you can see the grace of this protima has been shaped by the same hands, the vision is from the same mind. To Durga, and the artist, my humble pronaam.
The plan now is to see the puja at Jagat Mukherjee park and then start heading home. A few feet before the puja we spot an empty taxi. A sudden impulse makes us board the taxi, and I only get to see the pandal outside, shaped like the ghats of Benaras.
Once inside the taxi, we realize it’s only 10:30 in the morning. The heat is beginning to make it prickly, but greed gets the better of me and instead of home, decide to make a round of Dum Dum Park.
Getting down near Bangur, we empty most of our water, but the temperature is getting unmanageable. Dum Dum Yubak Brinda is the closest one, so that’s where we start. The pandal is an intricate work of bright colors and shapes, and a gorgeous protima inside that reminds of folk art of Bengal.
But the troops are exhausted and threatening mutiny. To refuel we take a snack break at a sweet shop, gur sandesh and kaalo jam. Obi says no to the sweets and goes for an orange ice cream bar instead. But then scraps that idea as well, he just wants to go home. So Mom decides to have the ice cream, a decision that has consequences in the future. But for the moment she feels recharged and in the mood to check out the rest of Dum Dum Park. Yody is resigned to “whatever”. The rest want to get out of the sun, asap. I try to find the shortest path home, while trying to see some on the way. In the process making mistakes interpreting maps, ending up on gullies that are neither taking us closer to home nor to any puja.
In the back and forth, unexpectedly end up at the back of a pandal. Have to push against a stream of people exiting to enter it. The Durga inside has strangely angular features, and a bold star of David in the front. Jewish Durga? Unlikely. As Nusrat Jahan pointed out today, Durga Puja is not about religion, it’s about celebration. And in celebration, anything goes, as long as it looks good.
After some more errors, we are back on track. A string of stunning pujas: Bharat Chakra, Tarun Shangha, Dum Dum Park Sarbojonin. Each one unique, each a world of its own. But the heat now is beyond tolerable, everything has turned into a blur, not sure what we are looking at anymore.
Everyone drops dead under the fan as we reach home. Yody summarizes the day, “To see something good, you have to suffer. We suffered, we saw.”
Ashtami
Big day. Big gang. Even Pihu makes it clear “Mama aami jaabo.” But Mom is down with a sore throat and body aches. So Pihu, Adi, Mili and Adhir take one taxi, while Obi, Yody, Barnali and me another, together we head south through the bypass road. A blast of cool morning breeze as our taxi zips through. Both taxis come up side by side and we frantically wave at each other. Giant billboards line both sides of the road. Among them I spot a strange one, something that would have been unimaginable just a few years ago. An ad for a new clothing line, the model a young woman who’s not fair, just lovely. “All these used to be swamps, fish bheris.” I tell Yody and Obi pointing towards the 30 story high-rises. But it’s difficult to convey the magnitude of the change to someone who has not seen the swamps first hand. “I like this one” Obi says pointing to two apartment towers that have a suspended garden complete with palm trees bridging their top floors.
The morning starts at the west end of Rash Behari Ave, at Chetla Agrani. This year’s theme, modes of information exchange through the ages. Collection of old letter boxes, telegraph machines all the way to the screen and mouse. The protima inside too is neither traditional nor modern, but an exquisite balance between the two. The most stunning feature though, is the roof of the pandal, which is an inverted sphere with a model of Kolkata. As you look up, you look down at Kolkata, spotting all your favorite landmarks. This is what a bird shot must feel like, as it drops out of the sky head first. Even Google assistant is confused, as it helpfully prompts “Rotate image?”.
Adhir and I discuss how far Suruchi Sangha might be, but then decide to skip going that far out. In deference to Pihu, we decide to skip Mudiali, Shib Mandir etc as well and keep the route linear and quick. Crossing the Chetla bridge we reach the west end of Nepal Bhattacharjee St, to the puja just beyond the market. The last couple of years the puja here was interesting, but this time it does something to me that I can’t describe in words. The protima has an unfinished look, the clay is exposed and retains its natural color, draped in a suti sari with red border, like the ones popular ages ago. Looking around the pandal, my head is flooded with memories of being in a berar baari, of feet touching the cool earthen floor, the smell of old clothes and chotai. All these memories from such a long time back, suddenly unlocked, and with such intensity! I’m surprised at myself, I can barely call these memories my own. I can only imagine how the creator of this protima suffers in the world that is now around. The entrance to the puja depicts clay at different stages, the raw mud from the river banks, step by step transforming into the idols. And once you see it, you realize the godess and the asur, both are made from the same clay, and to the same clay they return.
Next 66 Pally and neighboring Badamtala Ashar Sangha. Feels like I visited two sisters, both share the same gene of grace and beauty, boro didi a little dominating and reserved, choto didi calm and sympathetic.
To save time we grab two auto rickshaws to Deshpriya Park. Each puja is uniquely adapted to the location where it’s held. In case of Deshpriya Park, it’s the large expanse of the open space which is leveraged to create a spectacle of lighting shows that adorn the large pandal. In front of it, a long snaking path barricaded by bamboo, giving ample opportunity to admire the show. During the day the path is empty and just a long walk. “Making us walk through a jilipi in the sun!” a man behind mutters.
Inside a sabeki Durga, but a little twist to the eyes renders a totally different expression, full of fury. Mahisasur has a six pack inspired by Hrithik. The pandal depicts various mythological stories. In one corner Shiv and Parvati are busy doing their thing, Yody and Obi giggle as they steal glances at it. I go on a lecture about how in Hinduism you worship the male and the female organ in the form of Shivling, how it has roots in fertility worship from ancient rituals. In a corner Krishna is peeking at gopis bathing naked in the river. Can think of no good reason to defend this one.
A boy is sitting outside the pandal exit, holding up a bandaged leg. Three men in kurta bend over him with concern. “Na, na, I’m okay.” The boy assures them with a smile. From Deshpriya Park, we follow the signs towards Tridhara Sammilani. This is perhaps the best puja this year in terms of overall concept. The theme suggests women empowerment. Portraits of famous Indian women personalities adorn the pandal, but as you walk around and look at the portraits from a different angle, they transform into Durga. The protima is one of its kind, embodiment of confidence. The overall design is vastly simplified, you can almost see the concept sketch of flowing curves made with single strokes. The bold color makes you aware of some power radiating from the goddess. Several gilded cages occupy the rest of the pandal. I walk up to one of them, but what’s this? I’m inside the cage! A sideways look reveals that the cage is only half, the other half is a mirror. Mind blown. We are prisoners here of our own device.
We linger around Tridhara, finding it difficult to leave. Eventually we amble across the road to end up at Ballygunge Cultural. This year it’s a fine bamboo-work affair, with a pretty Manipuri protima.
On the way Yody spots a hawker with gold and silver colored bracelets, and decides to pick a few for friends back home. While I ask for the price, Barnali tries her hand at bargaining. Mili tries to clarify how many we want to buy, and Adhir joins in to help. Meanwhile Pihu is trying to find something for herself. And everyone is talking at once. “It’s two for hundred.” “So in total four hundred?” “What?! Four hundred for one? This is too much!” “No, no, all eight for hundred.” “Not four, we need eight.” “But that’s what I was saying, eight for four hundred. Not four for eight hundred.” Somehow in this chaos we end up exchanging some money for bracelets.
Everyone is feeling quite content and ready to go back, and I don’t want to repeat yesterday’s mistake, so agree readily. But the taxis have a diktat not to stop on Rash Behari to keep the traffic flowing. After a few tries, we start walking towards Garia to catch one, but are soon trapped by rain. Everyone huddles in front of a closed shop, as raindrops the size of bullets come pouring down. Pihu is determined to show she’s not afraid of the rain by alternately sticking out her hands and legs.
The loudspeaker from a nearby puja is broadcasting its purohit’s passionate speech. “This year, we are going to change the mantra for anjali. Every year during the prayer, we have been saying, putran dehi. Why, I ask you? Do we want to only pray for sons? Don’t we want daughters from Durga Maa? Therefore this year, we will change the prayer to santan dehi…”. Shenanigans of men, ending one at a time, wheels are in motion.
The rains have triggered Barnali’s mood for tea so we stop by a tea stall near Singhi Park. To give company Yody, Obi and Adi order bubble tea, which the two people manning the stall start making from scratch, consulting a recipe from the computer. Minutes pass by as everyone eagerly wait for the tea. A boy standing next to me, kurta, sharp features, hint of a stubble, suddenly asks me “Where are you from?” Seeing the puzzled look on my face, he explains “Your kids have an accent, that’s why…”. So I give a reply and ask about him. Turns out, eleventh standard student, science stream. Thirty years from now, you’ll be standing here with salt and pepper hair, I am thinking, with a new batch of earthlings ordering some synthetic flavored tea. May be some of these words will reach those earthlings. Or at least, that’s my diabolical plan, to one day reach those who are not yet here.
Refreshed by the tea, we decide to check out a last few before turning back. Immediately in front is Singhi park, a giant dome of a pandal, made of thousands of kolshi. Inside, a Durga as calm as Buddha, who seem to have taken a vow on non-violence. A faint fragrance envelops me as I close my eyes in pronaam. Ah, it’s the smell of Kolkata after rain, like traces of jasmine! Opening my eyes, I realize the truth, it’s the perfume of the lady standing next to me. Consciously looking for the smell of Kolkata after rain, I find it, well… a mixed bag.
Final stop for the afternoon, Ekdalia Evergreen. Replica of a south indian temple, I remember seeing something like this exactly at this spot before. The crowd is now shoulder to shoulder. Time to catch that long delayed taxi. The ultimate champion for today is Pihu, the one who never uttered a complaint, or asked to turn back, curious as ever.
Evening Barnali, Yody and me go for a small round, while Obi stays back for a round of PUBG with Adi and Aakash. We go to Barnali’s Mama who is also the organizer of the para puja. “It’s a small puja”, he explains, “Total budget of seven lakhs.” “How much do the big ones cost?” I ask. “Four, five crores, minimum.” The best one this year according to him is Jagat Mukherjee Park, the Benaras Ghat one. We do a quick pronaam at the para puja. After looking at giant protmias all day, this one feels somewhat compact. “You still need a crane to load, unload this.” Mama explains, “Even this size is more than ten feet tall.” Outside a woman in shorts is taking a selfie with her friend, while a man looks on. “Ki dada?” The woman asks back, “My half-pant making you uncomfortable, na ki?” “Naah, naah”, the man shakes his head, baring all his teeth in an apologetic smile.
Before we catch the taxi back, Mama takes us to the puja opposite the Shayambazaar Metro and it turns out to be an eye opener. There is something very familiar about the style of the protima, like drawings from childhood textbooks, but I can’t exactly place it.
It’s eight in the evening. Groups of people are starting to choke the streets. The all night pandal hopping revelry is gathering mass. Time to go home.
Nabomi
No pandal hopping today. Instead we are at Shanto Di’s apartment puja. The protima is a simple sabeki affair. Groups sit around in rows of chair in front of the protima, chatting. The wall close by displays result of the children’s drawing competition. The names signing the paintings are from all parts of India, puja here is a melting pot. Proshanto Da guides me to the bhog, a bowl of khichudi topped with halwa puri. This multi-cultural thing has very clear and chewable benefits. We take a short break at Shanto Di’s place, chatting about old times, and then come back for lunch at the community hall of the apartment complex.
Circular tables occupy most of the hall. Adults are sitting around in groups, kids are running around. Lunch is declared open. I queue up with others and hand over the coupon Shanto Di gave me to get a plate. Kichuri, papad, chorchori, begun bhaja, chatni, mishti, my plate is all piled up. Meanwhile Yody and Obi learn how to defend empty chairs, which we eventually get to. Hundreds of lunch conversations are on around the hall. We talk about how the kids are doing, influence of BJP, what Mamta Banerjee said, the cultural program for the evening, how crisp the papad is, and everything in between.
Back to Shanto Di’s apartment after lunch. The depression of the pujas ending is starting to creeping in. Travel plans and school opening dates are discussed. We hang around the balcony, taking in the breathtaking view from the 10th floor. The airport, old mills by the river, traffic crawling on Jessore road, the high rises by the bypass on the left, new town on the right, and a sea of small multi story houses in between. The present, sandwiched by the past and future. Like any other city perhaps. But as long as durga puja is there, Kolkata will be, special.
Epilogue
Done with Dashami yesterday. The shops should reopen today. Time to collect this year’s tea. On an early morning taxi towards Lalbazaar police station, discussing the various pujas with the driver and trying to rank them. He is quite disappointed I didn’t see the gold Durga at Santosh Mitra square, and after every five minutes reminds me there is still time. We’re somewhere in the Bowbazaar area. The taxi momentarily stops near a pandal shaped like a big ship, couple of men dismantling the pandal have blocked the road. The protima is showing through the bare entrance. The beauty of it just blows me over. I’m immediately sorry to have skipped this part of the city.
“Which one is this?” I ask the driver, “Just beyond compare…”
“Na, na.” The driver says, shaking his head. “This is just ordinary. If this was special, it would have been part of the parade. On the 13th. Mamta Banerjee, carnival at Red Road. All others have to dismantle by tomorrow. See, they are taking everything down.”
Hmm. Missed the top grade, this one. Reminds me of our performance evaluation at work. Below expectations, meets expectations, exceeds expectations. Somehow this grading has made its way to the puja. Of course, doesn’t matter one bit. What is in front of me is one of the best I’ve seen. And I suspect whoever made it knows this as well, all this grading is a distraction, making a thing of such beauty is the reward itself. Somewhere, I feel that potter inside me, perhaps others do as well. Free of the desire to excel, free of the desire to compete. The one who just wants to do the same thing again and again. Ten times, a hundred times. Each time waiting for it to reveal something new.
The taxi moves on. Sights of Calcutta from the taxi window roll past, the familiar sounds of traffic, life back to normal. Yes, it has definitely ended, but one final thought about the puja, as I realize my place in it. My place here is not to pass on anything. Or elevate anything. Or critique anything. Or in fact understand anything. My place is to be just part of it. Ten times, a hundred times.
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