Shopping with Maa Durga

This Saturday is special. I am taking Maa pujo-shopping today.

Is it true that daughters grow up too soon, faster than even sons do? For I keep hearing this from my parents.

It feels just like yesterday that Maa took me out shopping at the New Market. The Dakshinapan at Dhakuria was another great option in our days. Air-conditioned malls were still a few years away. The fact is, it did not really matter to me if it was an AC or a non-AC haunt. What mattered was the excitement of a boisterous and a loud Pujo coming, of holding onto Maa’s hands while she helped me out of the taxi, of seeing sparkingly lit shops displaying dazzling wares behind glass doors, of trying out new clothes and shoes, of eating out at fancy restaurants or maybe just grabbing a quick treat at the Friends cafe. Weekend outings were not in vogue in my days and that is why, this annual shopping trip was a rare blessing. It was sheer delight and the anticipation during the run-up to the day.

The outside of the New Market of Kolkata

And mind you, no amount of walking from shop to shop could tire me of the experience. On any other day, I would either nag to be picked up or ask for a rickshaw, but no, not on the shopping day.

I was inducted pretty early into the industry. Of shopping.

Maa would always dress me in pretty short frocks so that the frilly knickers underneath would show. She made sure, when she stitched the dresses herself that the designs from her European tailoring books were followed accurately. Not that she was a seamstress by profession but she just had this brilliant knack for fashion designing.

Well, of course I resented being dolled up in patterns of roses, tulips, lollies, and teddies - skimpy affairs with huge collars, pockets, and belts. Not to mention the matching clips and hairbands, which would mostly be buried inside the curly thickness atop my head. But back in our days we had not learned to express our opinions strongly. It is, however, another thing that wherever I went in those dresses made by her, I would always stand apart simply because of the uniqueness of my outfits. And I was a pretty kid too (there, I said it…but please note the past tense :P).

I particularly remember one skirt which had a matching top made of the same fabric. The interesting fact about that one was the tiny stretch of emptiness that was measured to show in between. The top would end baring cute baby fat around the middle while the skirt would start below the belly button. It was meant to be like that. I was a child of course, and did not find the skin-show embarrassing. But I found the dress incomplete, half-done, if you like. I remember tugging and pulling at the top hoping for it to grow a magical length.

"Maa eta choto hoye geche" (Maa, I think I am too big for this)
I would whine.

"Naa babu eta eirokom i" (Nope darling, it is meant to be like this)
Maa would shake her designer head, obviously lamenting her daughter’s utter lack of aesthetic sense.

Now it is the other way round.

When I buy her saris today I often hear her complain "Eta abar kirokom design, ordhek net, ordhek silk, abaar anchol jute?" (What kind of a design is it, half net, the other half silk and the rest of it jute?”)

It is now my turn to tell her "eta erokom i" (it is meant to be like this).

So I am going to be her shopping guide and chaperone for today. I want to make this day special for her. I want her to enjoy every moment of it. Not that I am paying back or anything. For I know, she is someone I can never repay my debts to. I want to do it for selfish reasons.

I want to bask in the sight of her choosing her colors, textiles and prints. I want to gift myself this special sight of her laughing with her head thrown back in simple joys of her daughter’s company. The daughter, who is so caught up with life that she never finds time to visit her ageing parents. The daughter, who feels guilty every moment for not having done anything for the duo, who not only raised her, but raised her well enough to be called a ‘super mommy in training’ by her friends and colleagues.

Pujo ashche. Maa ashchen.

Durga Puja at Victoria Greens

For me my Maa Durga is my biological mother, notwithstanding her weaknesses that would never make her pick up arms against a Mahishasura. I like to think she is a softer, calmer version of the goddess, minus the weapons and the lethal pets.

With a daughter like me, who needs the lion?
What say, friends?

Men are watched too

Trick was everyday
To keep her on a leash
In her place,
Working on the shame
Of being seen.

She would not scream
Lest they called her names.
Hers was a small village
Of known faces and names.
Of close ties
And gazes.

Soon she saw her chance.
Chancing upon his kingdom
To fly away.

He would not hold her hand,
His kins watching.
He had different loyalty to prove,
Of course.

*************

Vintage woman

They don't say anything about vintage women
In photos wearing faces gone out of fashion.
Faces fade, photos stick longer
Tokens of old links
To an exiled past
In memory, another territory
In family albums.
Who's that face?
No one call tell anymore.
Unsettling replacements, is life all about.

Vintage

Red sari at RahmanIshq!

One word of advice from a bruised soul. If you are an ardent admirer of a musician and if his/her concert is announced somewhere in your city, please try and avoid the disillusionment in watching him/her perform on stage. For the sake of your admiration to continue.

I was at the Salt Lake stadium last Tuesday on October 1 to watch one of my favorite composers, A. R. Rahman perform with his team. Names like Sukhwinder and Javed Ali were magnets strong enough to have pulled me in that direction. Plus, I had never been in an open air concert before. If you discount the JU Sanskriti concerts, which had us romping like mad kittens in jeans.

All my concert experience has been a string of closed door affairs inside the Kala Mandir and other indoor auditoriums, with soft seats cushioning my steadfast bulk, while I swayed ever so slightly to the tune played on stage. This, was a different story altogether.

The skies had decided to adopt untimely rain clouds for a week just to humor the monsoon a little longer before the autumn sunshine set in. Blame it all on depression, that affective disorder that often hits me as well. So hard on the insides, that I know it can be a challenge to contain the flow – of Gangetic rains or lachrymal tears.

So what I am saying, it was a rainy evening, and I heard my son ask:
“Maa will they cancel?”
“Na, babu, they have charged 2000 per ticket, so they must have made some arrangements.”

So we set out boldly, me in a red sari, and long danglers, hoping Rahman will spot me in the crowd, and send an appreciative nod floating through the electric air. It never struck me as odd that for an open air concert in pounding rain, plastic overalls could have been a better choice. Again, I blame it on my memory of my mother decking herself up in all her finest fineries for the jalsas and mushairas that my father took her to. Genes, I say they fuck you up, big time!

So as I was saying, we set out, very brave, praying that the rain will stop and the ushers will whisk us off to privileged seats next to the stage. 4000 bucks to me is not a small sum, you see. I told myself that if the richer folks, that is, those who had forked out 5000 for a ticket, are seated in front of us, maybe Rahman would have to crane his head to catch the show of my sparkly danglers. As a back-up plan, I had also stuck a big red bindi on my forehead, as a better landmark to stand me out in a musical mob. It was an unmistakable token of my effort to prepare for the event.

The E M Bypass, the road which takes me from my home to Salt Lake, looked like a snake congested with undigested food. Traffic was a nightmare.

The E.M. Bypass on that day

It took me a minute to realise that everyone in the city was headed for the concert and chances were, we would have to fight our way through to even find a parking spot. Undaunted, and even energized with a mental image of me clutching my son’s arm in one hand, dragging him through the crowd and using my other hand to steer the butt of my umbrella into making an invisible path just to let us pass, I saw myself as a very believable version of Moses merging into Durga. You just had to replace the trident with the pointed umbrella handle in your mind. I am good at making these replacements. In mind.

After an hour of huffing and puffing, venting out an incredible volume of frustrated breath at the lack of infrastructure in my city, the complete incompetence of the traffic police, we reached the nearest point to the venue. They had reserved vehicle parking only for the VIPs. We parked at a darkened spot, straight down the roundabout, closest to Gate no. 1. Jumping out of the car, checking the watch to see if we were late, asking the reps of the West Bengal police umpteen times: “dada kon deeke?" (Which way, bro?), we reached the right gate. Holding the sari pleats in one hand just the right bit away from the spongy mud and brandishing the tickets in another (the umbrella had taken a wet refuge inside my bag, how I wished I had at least one more hand then) we got inside the gate.

Into the stadium I stood aghast! Where were we supposed to sit? There were people sitting on plastic Neelkamal chairs, people standing – inside an iron cage. The cage designated the area for all the two-thousanders!

So this was supposed to be my area of privilege. But where were the chairs? Someone told me, you have got to get your own chair and for a moment I wondered why didn’t I think of getting a few from home?
Picture this, now. Completely devastated with the un-royal treatment despite my pricy tickets, my red silk sari no longer rustling dry due to the mud splattered on the fall of its pleats, my son asking in a small voice: “Maa, where is Rahman?”, with people pushing me aside into an even muddier grass patch, my heels sinking into the slosh, I was ready to cry.

But the spirit prevailed.

I didn’t believe my situation could be as bad and decided that it was all a mistake. I was surely meant to have a seat? A little asking around shattered my optimism and I was convinced that I was no longer the chosen one in Rahman’s land. In the dark, I couldn’t even figure out the stage, which was an aeon away from where I stood. When the lights came on stage I realized I will have to watch the man on the screens they had put up all around.

My boy asked: “Maa, this is like watching the TV in the rain.”

I agreed within but replied: “Imagine your luck, Rahman is standing just a few feet away”. I thanked God that my son hadn’t yet learned the exact measure of those “few feet”!

As we stood watching Rahman sing the first song and say “Nomoshkaar Kolkata, you rock!” I was accosted by two very hormonal teens, who asked me to go and stand at the back, because I was obstructing their view.

Ummm...let me see if I can identify the musicians on stage

I asked for a chair, to that that they said: “Aapni deri kore eschechen, ekhon chair nei, aapnar dosh. Go stand at the back!” (You were late, so there are no chairs, your falult!)

Something inside me snapped. Here I was looking at two budding men, who did not even see that I was standing in the mud with a kid, craning my stub of a neck just to see, who was singing. And here there were two very tall guys, who were shouting at me.

I said: “I am sorry, but I am not leaving.”

To my horror the guys came and stood in front of me, trying to block my view saying: “Dekhi apni ki kore dekhen, apnake dekhte debona” (We’ll see how you watch the show, we won’t let you”).

The thing is, they were so tall that had they just stood behind me, they could have managed the whole show just fine, but they had chairs, that too, on an elevation. All they had to do was bring their chairs to the open space where I was standing. There were ample space to place chairs there, but some people just like to fight for no reason. Instead of dodging, I began clapping my hands to the music. Looking back they realized they had taken on a mighty opponent. So they left. Came back soon with a policewoman, who asked me to sit down. I graciously responded, that I only wanted to sit, but when they had charged 2000 for a ticket, shouldn’t they have at least thought of providing plastic chairs – if not in surplus, but I am sure they had a count of tickets sold?

The officer left without a word. Soon I was joined by many more, who had no option but to stand. I had made up my mind to leave after just one more song, when I noticed someone vacate a chair in front. As I grabbed it, I soon found one more for my son. The guy next to me had a smelly shirt, the guy sitting in front of me was so tall that I had to play hide-and-seek across his head. Vendors kept selling crisps, tea, jhalmuri, adding to the human curtain before me. One chaiwallah stepped on my toes, one snack-seller dropped his damp sack on my lap as if I was sitting there to play catch. Women hooted like owls every time someone even nondescript came on stage. That’s how they greet musicians on stage, maybe. I am old school, and I only clap. Sometimes I forget to applaud. But only when the music has moved me too deep for words.

But we sat through – not because we had to make good use of our money. I heard Rahman go off key in some songs – jarring my ear drums more than once. I saw them playing Rahman videos, which had Aishwarya Rai and Sonam Kapoor looking cute in them. Sukhwinder was possibly too drunk to have given his best. Javed Ali and Harshdeep Kaur were the only ones to strike pleasant notes in the air. It was a very average show.

I hadn’t come for this.

But then Rahman was at the harmonium, playing Khwaja Mere Khwaja from Jodha Akbar and Kun Fayya Kun from Rockstar. I looked around to find everyone singing along.

These are religious Islamic songs and I saw a heavily sindoored Hindu woman singing them with her eyes shut.

Rahman at the piano

And then it hit me.

All these people who were singing along, possibly didn’t realize that they were singing religious chants, swimming with the tide of global music. Rahman is an international figure now, and to me he represented the universal religion of music. Music doesn’t divide between Hindus and Muslims, between Christians and Buddhists.

We fight over chairs, over tickets, over blocking each others’ ways.

I came back sobered. Sometimes you need a blow to your face to change the direction you are looking at. It wasn’t a fantastic concert. I have promised never to attend another in my life, unless I transform overnight into a VIP or can afford a posh seat, where my bindi and my earrings become conspicuous enough to the singing sensations on stage. But I swear I had learnt a lesson once again in humility.

********************

The finale was well. Dining at Afraa in City Center I, where my red sari, red bindi and my fake diamond danglers could display themselves in full glory. Picture attached below for you:

Yours truly at Afraa, waiting for dinner to be served

Woman in the washroom

I was in the women's washroom of my office an hour ago. Since I work for a European consulting major, they make sure employees have the swankiest of facilities. So the washroom has an automatic air-spray that keeps any unpleasant odor away. Two female attendants are constantly supervising the floors for water droplets left behind by users. We have moisturizing handwash dispensers at every basin, ejaculating pink floral perfumed crème into our hands for sanitary purposes. Mirrors line the long walls adjacent to the long polished granite basin stands. And a long mirror graces another wall for dressing purpose.

I have often run into women huddled together over make-up kits, applying lavish amounts of foundations, lipsticks, eye-shadows and every other kind of cosmetic color on their faces and necks. Sometimes I have come across teams of disgruntled girls, discussing the “bossy” boss or the “bitchy” friend. Character assassination done in a group, serves as a great unifier, so I have seen – drawing collective solace in dissecting someone’s marital life, or wondering why so-and-so is not getting married yet.

No, don’t get me wrong. I am not an eavesdropper.

I am just an observer of people. I like looking at people’s hands while they speak animatedly. I love watching people watch other people, as their faces change lines. I love looking inside people's homes when the curtains are slightly permissive. But only, while I have no thinking to do. I am usually a thoughtful person – not in a positive sense at all. I mean, I think a lot.

So my next door friends, Kakoli and Tintin often accuse me of not noticing them passing me by in the neighborhood, even when they have made every effort to draw my attention. Yes, I am often lost in my own thoughts. So, do not assume that I am a nosy parker.

Accidental observations, who can help? But yes, when I am watching, I am paying good attention. And I am smart (or so I think) and the likelihood of me missing a detail is very slim. So as I was saying, the washroom of my organization makes for some interesting themes.

Only today, I witnessed something disturbing.

Sobs.

Yes, sobs - in gulps, in gurgles, in sniffs. Uncontrollable. Coming from inside of a pristinely white wash cubicle. I tried to pay attention to my hands. I was getting ready to go down for lunch. My friends were waiting outside. Please note, I have more male friends than female, so they do not have access to the washroom that I use. So we do follow the daily ritual of cleansing our hands in gender designated spaces before going down to eat. And I had got in to do just the same. I turned on the stainless steel tap in full force, so that the sound of the water would drown the one that was coming from inside, as I thought hard.

Should I wait for the person inside to come out and make an appearance? Not of course, because I want to identify the face for future gossip reference, but just in case she needed help. I washed my hands. Plucked a cleaning tissue from the Kimberley Clarke contraption on the wall, I wiped my hands clean and waited. I texted my lunch-mates to go ahead to the cafeteria, citing a toilet emergency as excuse. After a while, the sobs stopped. I heard the click of the door and looking at the mirror, caught sight of a red-eyed girl emerge. She was so engaged in her misery that she did not notice me staring at her reflection. She was still taking sharp short breaths, clearly in shock.

“Are you alright?” I asked.
“Yes, I am, thanks.” she said managing a weak smile. “I am sorry for being so silly.”
“No, you were not being silly. Just human. Do let me know if you need any help”

It is a strange but a common trait among women that you can suddenly open up to a stranger in a washroom. And so she did. She told me of a boyfriend. A guy who works as a software engineer.

“He is a good guy. Loves me a lot.” Her shy smile stretched her lips into a beautiful upward arch.

“I am sure he does.”

“He is just so possessive that I cannot talk with any other guy. I wore a tight pair of jeans yesterday and he was still lashing out at me for flaunting my legs to the public. And, oh yes, he doesn’t let me wear lipstick. He says, only whores wear lip colors. Whores, who get raped and very deservedly, he says. Of course, he has my best interest in mind. With so many rapes happening around, why attract further attention? So i don't blame him but I just got a little emotional in there.”

She said all that in one long breath, or so it seemed to me. Too quick in her beau’s defense.

I stood there. Motionless. Wordless.
I leaned on the basin pedestals for support.

I was looking at a victim.

Of what?
Domestic abuse?
Too much love?
Of best intentions gone sour?

What was I looking at? A fresh engineer out of college, who had dreams of setting up home with a man. Happiness and freedom. Comfort and respect?

But this man? Surely not?

I decided not to speak a word. I patted her back and said: “Things will work out, one way or the other. And oh yes, one more thing. Tell your boyfriend that whores are women with a profession just like you and I. They do not deserve to get raped.”

As I walked out to be met by a very worried looking crowd of my male colleagues, who demanded to know what was wrong with me or if I needed any medicine, I shook my head into a silent ‘no’. We marched toward the glass door.

For my friends, who are right now in an abusive relationship that apparently parades as a “caring” one, or are witnessing someone else go through this, I am posting a few links.

Please, please take a moment to read.

It is about making your own choice. Not letting anyone else make yours.

Be it a lipstick or a backless top.

Note: All images sourced from the internet.
-----------------------------------------------------

1. http://www.sheknows.com/love-and-sex/articles/1008571/8-signs-youre-in-a-dangerous-relationship

2. http://www.livestrong.com/article/101671-danger-signs-possessive-relationships/

3. http://www.womansavers.com/dangerous-men.asp

Krishna-Draupadi

28 August.

So today, we are celebrating the birth of the original butter-thief, lingerie-pincher, the demon-buster, the ace charioter, the royal flirt, the ultimate political strategist, the divine musician, and the oldest best-selling author. While he didn't care two hoots for conventional morality, and showed his blue middle finger to moralists of his time, (something that appeals to the rebel in me) the part of his career that really touches me is his relationship with the sultry Draupadi.


Looks like high-fiving with the Pandavas had left their lonely wife only lonelier. And always, always it was her "sakha" (male friend) Krishna, who unfailingly came to her rescue. I am not talking about the tale of how he saved her from the wrath of the powerful saint Durvasha. Neither am I referring to the lore of Krishna guarding her modesty, when her useless husbands had gambled her away to the Kauravas.

I am talking of the times when Draupadi must have needed a friend. Lives of ancient queens and princesses must have been pretty difficult. And for someone with five husbands, it was perhaps even more so. I am sure it was a challenge to divide her affection equally between five strappingly handsome husbands, who took turns every couple of years to occupy her marital bed.

Was she torn between allegiances? Did she replace one with the other in her mind's eye, while making love? Did she have to manage jealousies of different proportions in husbands vying for her one true love? If she did, then for someone like Draupadi, a woman with a mind of her own, and with a spine made of stainless steel (not literally!) a confidante, a sakha must have become indispensable. Someone, who wouldn't ridicule her misgivings, wouldn't ignore her groans and tears as feminine hormones gone haywire during that one time every month. Someone like the impish Krishna, who would allay all her doubts with that enigmatic smile and always materialize from thin air, whenever beckoned.

I am not an mythology expert. I am not sure if their relationship was indeed free from any proverbial sexual tension. In the Mahabharata their bond is described with the Bhakti rasa - the typical tie between the God and the devotee. In a worldly context, the relationship can be thought of has a unique a human element (still free from any element of sex).

In Chapter 2 (titled 'Blue') of The Pallace of Illusions, Draupadi begins by telling us that because both Krishna and she were dark skinned - in an era obsessed with milk n almond hues - they got along so well. That is the beginning of her narrative on how her sakha had set her world right for her by setting up a different standard for an accepted complexion. Remember that king Drupad only allowed Krishna to visit his daughter he had kept so carefully segregated from the rest of the world. Speaks of the trust our blue boy commanded in the royal household. Draupadi found her sakha difficult to unravel at times, so their relationship was not free from complications. But even then she admits in the book that to a large extent, Krishna made her who she was - by challenging her traditional beliefs, and sometimes by teasing her to tears. As for me, though Draupadi must have been too intelligent to have missed her sakha's sexual charms, she was too torn between Karna and Arjuna to have fallen for her sakha instead.

And Krishna called Draupadi by a special name - Krishnaa - the female variant of his own. His namesake. If you ask me, they were two peas in a pod. Both very different among equals.

So how many of you have your sakhas? Do you have that special friend, who will hold you, no matter how jittery your journey becomes? Do you have a Krishna in your life, who is always there to break your fall? If yes, today is the day to say a prayer in his/her name. Krishna - to me embodies this spirit of unconditional man-woman friendship. If there was any sexual overtone at all in their camaraderie, it did not define their friendship. Nor did it ever rise above their trust in each other. Nor did it color their non-possessive acceptance of each other. It was a friendship of equals (very rarely found in present day marriages or any man-woman relationships, I hasten to add) - a bond between two people who shared the faith that such a connect was possible.

Jai shri Krishna! 

Day of the Kite

The 17th day of a sultry September.

I open my eyes to a rain-washed dawn. Looking at the calendar I realize, today marks the auspicious beginning of the Bengali month of Ashwin. Ashwin and Kaartik - the twin months of Sharat, that sees many of the Hindu festivities. Looking out of my bedside window, I see tiny specs of color in motion, thronging the rectangular sky. Blinking away leftovers of sleep, I marvel at the flying kites. Really, this early?

Of course, today it is the day of the ghuri (the kite), the day of appeasing Vishwakarma, the Hindu god of architecture and engineering. He will be worshipped in garages and factories. In roadside pandals that will appear out of thin air overnight. And didn’t I taste the medley of Kuman Sanu, Abhijeet, Asha Bhosle, Kishore Kumar (chartbusting Bollywood playback singers) invading my ears from makeshift pandals already? They blend sorely with the recorded voices of Kanika Bandopadhyay, Debabrata Biswas (singers of Tagore songs), wafting in from the traffic signal posts. Yes, the present government of Bengal has made sure that we, the Bengalis, do not forget our cultural heritage and has planted sound boxes at every traffic posts that churn out songs of yore to both willing and unwilling listeners.


OK, now back to Vishwakarma. Armed with four hands, this bejeweled deity exudes immense confidence in his steady clay gaze. He holds a water-pot, a book, a noose and a craftsman's hammer in his hands (he has four, remember!). The locally worshipped pandal variant is however perched on an elephant (he had already figured out the impossibility of affording gas/petrol for his cars. An elephant is more economical. Think of the rising prices!). He will hold court for two whole days. Sometimes, three, depending upon the municipal corporation's mood.

Colorful ghuris (kites) make for the backdrop of his two-day court. Typically all factories observe this occasion to worship the engineering expert for obvious reasons. And even though the Internet will throw up an image of a silver haired and silver bearded god seated on a golden throne as Vishwakarma, you will never see an older version anywhere in the pandals. It is always a very muscular, very young Vishwakarma, sporting jet black tresses reaching evenly toned shoulders and a matching mustache – resembling a south Indian super star – that you will find at the pandals. We, the race of idol worshippers, like our Gods young, as much as our matinee idols.

My earliest memory of this festival is from my school bus, having told by my bus-driver kaku (we were taught early to create family ties with everyone we met!) that the bus needed to be adorned with flowers (plastic and real) on that special day. And that some incense sticks had to be stuck at the front. I had asked why would he want to worship an inanimate thing that didn’t even come in the shape of a human husk. He told me that if the engine got all hot and angry, it would not show up next day at my doorstep. I was convinced.


I didn’t want to miss school.

Suddenly I was very aware of van-full and truckloads of handsome heroic gods passing me by on the road. Stalls materialized in a flash selling the clay models, which funnily looked cast of the same mold as that of Durga’s second son Kartikeya (another Hindu god, worshipped for his valour, who for some strange reason likes to sit on a peacock).

And thus I was introduced to this veritable super power behind buses, trucks, rickshaws, buildings, and monuments.


Few days prior to the festival, provisional shops would start selling kites (I still don’t know the connection) and spools of thread. Boys would get busy crushing glass shards to smear on their kite threads ahead of their kite-flying tournaments. “Bhokatta!” came swimming through the autumn air as a war cry of sorts. I never caught the full word but it sounded identical to a primitive exhilaration of victory after the opponent’s kite was cut short. A running rally of boys would emerge from nowhere chasing the orphaned paper art. Sometimes a stray one would land on my terrace and I wouldn't know what to do with it.

In some households today they will worship ovens and hobs (ranna pujo) and not cook for a few days thereafter. It always struck me as odd the way we confer life on non-living things like clay idols, cereals and cooking gadgets. But then there is no questioning faith wherever it stems from - self-belief, handed down heritage or rituals imposed. What matters to me is that festivals such as this spread an air of acceptance and gratitude and reinforces the community feeling.


When I was a girl growing up in Behala (a suburb near Kolkata), the crazy bhashan (immersion) dance of rickshaw pullers, after bottles of bangla (cheap local liquor) would scare me out of my wits. I would walk quickly away from their carnival averting my eyes from the procession of revellers. Dancing their way through, they would follow the garlanded idol on a van to a nearby pond for immersion at the end of their festival. I was worlds away from this gang in every way, only too willing to gun down the noise-makers, their loud-speakers blaring non-stop Bollywood numbers. Add to that my ear-drums taking a beating with the frenzied drum rolls in full volume.

Religion! Blah, the opiate of the crude mass at work!


My father would often plead with the crazed revellers to tone it down. “Kaku, ei toh ekdeen, ektu shojjho korun”, they would plead in return (“It’s just one day, uncle, please bear with us”). I would fume inwardly over the uncouth rituals, promising myself that someday I would live far away from this madding melee of melody.


Today I live in an apartment complex, which is impervious to all external noise. I don’t get to hear any of the Vishwakarma pujo cacophony. So maybe I miss being angry a tiny bit. I scramble out of the posh boundaries to take a peek at the revelry outside.


Today, I look close and hard at the same celebration with interest and affection. Somehow these two days of license seems more warranted by days of hard labor that the rickshaw pullers, auto/taxi/bus drivers, road workers, miners, garage mechanics and factory workers put in all year round. They deserve so much more to have shown us, the bhodroloks (the genteel) how to celebrate life even in the face of challenging circumstances. With the economy looking low, these are the people who bear the hardest brunt of it all. Yet they are the Vishwakarmas of our daily life, they carve out their niche for themselves without so much of any external aid. They steer our engines of well being, they reassert our faith in saying “I can!” to all the hurdles.


It is amazing how a rickshaw puller still finds reason to whistle away to glory while picking up his passengers for a mere 10 buck note – that too after haggling for his dues. Auto-wallahs still hum “All izzz well” while squeezing in between strangers on his front seat and riding his flimsy chariot on three puny wheels. Factory workers, car mechanics, goldsmiths, cobblers – our subaltern sidekicks living on the margins of a society that cannot do without them – will dance and sing to the beats of drums and hindi pop numbers today.

Festivities have begun. I look up at the sky and see the kites grow in numbers as the day progresses. That is how I like to see my spirits soar, breaking into multiple colors of life – up, up and away!


Happy Vishwakarma pujo to all of you!