Jaatishwar: an unforgettable tribute to Bengal's Kabiyals

An impromptu visit to the theater. After-effect: I wasn’t expecting to change. But possibly, I will never be the same post Jaatishwar. And post my discussion with Kabir Suman, who so very kindly gave me insights to the long-lost Banga Kabiyal tradition.

There have been biopics on lives of poets/authors/musicians before. There have been period dramas merged with the present as a backdrop before. There has been the goateed Uttam Kumar serenading Tanuja as Anthony Phiringee, looking every bit the part with his broken bangla and Manna Dey lending his lilting melody to the hero lip-syncing “tumi jaaminee, ami shoshee hey”. There have been flicks on past life regression too, in the past. And musicals galore. But nothing compares to the experience the new Bangla movie Jaatishwar, a Musical of Memories evokes in the audience – or in me.

The Kabiyal tradition and Kabir Suman 

The film is sub-titled "A Musical of Memories". And is about a Kabiyal, the legendary Portuguese minstrel of the 19th century Bengal, Anthony Heynsman. And his present day rebirth as Kushal Hazra. Anthony, the son of a businessman, had fallen in love with the folk music tradition of Bengal and had settled down in Chandannagore, the then Pharashdanga (French settlement in colonized Bengal) emerging as one of the reputed troubadours/minstrels of Bengal himself.

Many perhaps do not know that Srijit Mukherji's film owes its origin to a song by Kabir Suman - Jaatishwar!

Kabir Suman’s music is possibly the all-encompassing magic that defines the musical. While he has used Anthony’s Durga bandana played to show how a foreigner under trying circumstances could have mastered the Bangla Kirtan traditions, he has also used “Jaat gelo, jaat gelo bole, eki ajob karkhana” to show the influence Lalon Phokir's music had on him. The movie starts with a camera eye roving on the locales of rural Bengal with “Khodar kasam jaan, ami bhalobeshechi tomae” playing in Suman’s mellifluous voice as the journey culminates into the shanty of Anthony. You can barely see the hand grabbing the jholi with a lute-like instrument popping out. The transformation of Kushal into Anthony and vice versa is magical too – it happens so effortlessly that never for a moment the transition comes across as sudden. It is the music that connects the switch of the plots.

I am deeply indebted to Sir Kabir Suman for opening the door to our rich Kabiyal heritage through this film's music. No one has ever done through a single film's music what Suman has achieved in this film. Our standard Kabiyal repertoire consisted of Mathur, Shokhishongbad, Lohor, Jigir, chapan utor. In the early 19th century the decadent "babudom" and the culture of the plebeians helped set in khisti-kheur, which is mentioned in the film by way of an inferior genre in musical duel. Poets/Kabiyals would only take recourse to kheur to attack the opponent personally, when all other measures to defeat had failed.

What is interesting in the film is to watch great Kabiyals like Raam Boshu, Bhola, Gorokkhonath, Joggeshwori and Anthony use genres that didn't consist of merely attacks and counter-attacks, and was far away from Kheur. What Bhola and Joggeshwori played in this movie was closer to Kirtan. They are rich with lyricism and imagery and they deal with the Radha-Krishna theme, with emphasis on Radha's longing and then her union with Radhanath.

Kabir Suman, who has directed the music of this 'musical of memories' used Kirtan, ancient Shyamashongeet, Palaa-gaan, Tappa, Baul, Stage song melodies, Padaboli Kirtan, Dhop Kirtan, Folk melodies, Raga melodies for all the 13 Kabi-gaan. Never before have so many Kabiyal songs been so comprehensively presented in any Indian movie before. I am tempted to see what remains of the film if you take away these 13 Kabiyal songs. So the Kabiyals Srijit has portrayed in his film were not kheur-wallahs, but poets and musicians in their own rights. The Kabiyals songs you hear in this movie were not only melodious resonating with Padaboli Kirtan, Dhop Kirtan, Folk melodies, Raga melodies, Palagaan, and Tappa, but also had mythical and classical allusions made easy in popular lingo, without which the rural audience in those days wouldn't have accepted and enjoyed such heavy texts.The Kabiyals had to undergo rigorous training in Hindu and Muslim scriptures, in the Shastras and in mythologies. There are word plays that presuppose a sound knowledge of Bangla, Sanskrit and Persian. There is no notation or recording available to have brought these ancient Kabi-gaan to life and Kabir Suman had to recreate the melodies and music for all 13 Kabiyal  texts that Srijit had hand-picked for his film. No one in India has ever undertaken such a musical feat.

While the film owes its birth to Suman's song Jaatishwar itself, without these 13 songs, and "prothom aloy phera" and "e tumi kemon tumi" the film would possibly not be as credible to watch and believe in. It is Kabir Suman who successfully creates a deserving salute to our great Kabiyal heritage.

Anthony Heynsman and Kushal Hazra

Prasenjit Chattopadhyay – who plays dual roles of Anthony Heynsman and Kushal Hazra – has proved again that he is indeed the boss of Tollywood. The man who had once frolicked with forgettable heroines under rains and around trees, had arrived long ago at the pinnacle of versatility and maturity with films like Baaishe Srabon and Aparajita Tumi. Here he is different material altogether. He is Kushal Hazra, the nondescript librarian of the Chandannagore central library. And our protagonist the Jaatishwar, hurting under the burden of haunting memories of a past life - as Anthony Heynsman. His makeup, with a receding hairline and a blotch of bald, makes it difficult for us to recognize the ultra-glamorous matinee idol that he in reality is. The slight limp in the walk, that hesitance in his gait, his left hand going to the left side of his chest - are proofs of the two cerebral strokes that he speaks to have undergone as a result of his mnemonic trauma. Kushal Hazra is a fugitive – trying to escape the torment of his memories of a previous birth - as Anthony. One day destiny brings Rohit Mehta (Jishhu Sengupta), a student of Portuguese studies, to him, in search of books on Anthony Heynsman. And Kushal finally can hope of a possible release from his agony in the eager listener.

Narration and the narrator

Jaatishwar is narrated via various techniques. And there is meta-narration or narration within/about narration. Like there are typed in names and descriptions of the characters in comic sans font designating stereotypes for “optimally nyaka" Sudeshna (played by the frail Ria Sen) and the “chintita stree" (as the perennially concerned mother played by Chaitali Dasgupta), there is also Rohit, who helps to tie in the two love stories – of Anthony and himself – his, with a happy ending and Anthony’s that ends in tragedy and loss.

There is another narration, and the most important one. Prasenjit’s narration of Anthony’s life – the visions that have been haunting him, threatening to dislocate his sense of self completely. Only reading yesterday that Wikipedia is losing readership, I chuckled aloud today when Kushal (Anthony re-incarnate) tells Rohit (who is writing a dissertation and hence looking for information on Anthony) that not everything, which Google says is true or right. The point where Kushal and Rohit merge as credibly of the same breed is where both being of non-Bong origin, display sheer love for Bangla music – Anthony for the sake of his love for Bengali folk music, Rohit for the sake of his love for a Bengali lass, Maya (assayed by Swastika).

The film is well-researched, bringing forth kabi’r lorai (poets' duels) of Bhola moyra, Heeru Thakur, into life. There is very little documented history available on Anthony for researchers. The film depicts a film within, when Rohit goes on a quest with a handycam to capture trivia on Anthony’s life in Chandennagore and finally draws a blank. Using unconventional camera techniques, the past and the present are juxtaposed within one single frame, where Kushal sits on the 19th century stage opposite Anthony, bringing in the time dilution into brilliant play. You are transported to the thakur-dalaan of Shobhabajaar Rajbaari in a flash, where the Kabiyal repertoire is unfurled in front of your eyes.

Reincarnation more believable now

The best part of the story is - although re-incarnation is a debatable issue, with not many believers in the concept; the film makes you feel the whole story is plausible, so real. Anthony’s life is well documented, interspersed with shots of Rohit’s life – parallels in a connected love story. Even the final fight for poetic supremacy in Anthony’s life with veteran poets in a public duel runs with a parallel of Rohit’s final battle in Banemonium, a band competition organized by Radio Mirchi. Such is the delight when you watch movies by intelligent directors, who are well-read themselves and are willing to go that extra mile to give you that additional touch of brilliance through their hard work and thoughtful craft.One complaint though – I would have loved it if the song sung by Rohit at the band contest was a song gifted by Kushal. Though “E tumi kemon tumi, chokher tarae aayna dhoro” is about births and rebirths, somewhere I was left feeling asking for a more direct connect between Kushal and Rohit as far as the song was concerned. But then again, wouldn’t that make the film too predictable and average? Well, yes.

We are not told if Rohit won the contest. We know he won his lady love. Ironically, as a foil, Anthony had won the public duel against Bhola Moyra, but had lost his wife Soudamini to a team of vengeful Hindu villagers setting their house on fire. The story comes full circle in Soudamini reincarnated as Maya – having ended Kushal/Anthony’s search for his lost Mini. Kushal is cured of his demons of the past, but chooses to play the fop till the end, so that he is allowed his final peace from intrusive gaze. It is amazing story-telling, stylish camera work, superb witticism in the script and awesome characterization all culminating into a movie that is must-watch. Maybe more than once. And since “collective unconscious” is mentioned by way of diagnosis of past life regression, we may live in hope that movie makers of future will keep Srijit’s endeavor in mind, when they make biopics on little-known historical characters.

Prasenjit Chatterjee, Sir, yes, you are indeed the Industry!

Srijit Mukherji, Sir, take a bow!

Kabir Suman, Sir, you have brought back the music of the lost Kabiyals of yore! Thank you!

Human Hanuman

Call it faith. Call it the opiate of the middle class. Call it misplaced care. Or undeserved service.

I choose to call this love. Simple.

Hanuman wrapped up in the warmth of human love.
And in a brightly colored blue striped shawl. It's cold for the gods too.

Ten degrees and dropping. I dressed my dolls in woolens during winters. Transferring my wish to care for a living creature to an imagined unnamed entity. Wait, I think I did name my dolls.

Yes, I was a child alright but where is the harm if a group of grown ups (mostly in their twilight age) decide to wrap this tiny figure up and give themselves a little credit for saving the bachelor guy from cold?

I pass this small temple several times during my morning rounds. This is where the kakus and kakimas, jethus and jethimas assemble for their evening adda and prayers. I am not going to judge them for not showing an equal amount of cocern to the poor and unprivileged. Or maybe they already do, who knows?

I am not going to resent them that one community corner they call their own. They have lived their lives well. So when they are left with empty nests, memories and weekly calls with grandkids, why can't they live a second lease of parenthood raising the naughty Hanuman?

The girl I met at College Street

Have been putting off a much needed visit to the College Street for quite sometime now.

I made it today. Am glad I did.

The  College Street Coffee House

I haunt posh book stores of the city, sniffing crisp new pages for print fragrance, for newness. Like all book lovers, I like the smell of books hot off the press. I like to feel the stiffness of hard-bounds. As much as I like to caress the smooth gloss of the paperbacks with my fingers.

Sometimes I don't buy any books at all. I stand staring at the titles longingly. Or I sit, leafing through the pages, reading the beginning, allowing myself the luxury of spending an impolite number of moments on the small wooden seats meant for serious readers. Someone would courteously clear his throat, making his long-standing presence felt. I would mumble a quick "Sorry, please take this seat, I was leaving anyways" and rush to the exit. Of course, sometimes I go overboard with a spending frenzy and pick out all those books that have been reviewed and recommended by critics and friends alike. And then there's Flipkart, of course.

So why College Street? You must be kidding right? Who would jostle with unkempt teenagers? How would you barely keep out of old-book sirens trying to clutch at you? Plus there was prior warning of an anti-rape protest march from College Square to the Esplanade. On top of that today was the day of the big fight - mission Derby - between East Bengal and Mohun Bagan. Truckloads of yellow-red and maroon-green jerseys were already yelling and waving their way through toward the YuvaBharatiya Krirangan. Another iconic match to launch a spate of hot debate between the bangals and the ghotis - both claiming athletic and then by natural progression, cultural superiority. Undaunted by all the obvious deterrents, I pushed myself to take the trip. And lo, I landed myself right into a students' union demonstrating against an apparent anomaly in the recruitment exam of teaching staff.

You may imagine the scene. Rather I urge you to.

Students in white and black uniforms emerging with patient looking mothers from the heritage Hare School, un-uniformed ones from the legendary Presidency College. Angry people's rally in protest against Government inaction in various social/political spheres. Book distributors sending out cartons of their ware, bamboo carts carrying exercise copies and books suddenly jutting out of serpentine by-lanes and alleys that comb out of the main road. Book sellers crying their lungs out, calling every didi and dada to try out the worn out but precious old copies. Book buyers haggling over second-hand titles, Kolkata police wielding their batons in mock fierceness, young lovers walking hand in hand in complete oblivion of their whereabouts, groups of youths laughing with the sun in their eyes. Tram-cars, buses, taxis all almost threatening to run pedestrians over. Traffic snarl orchestrated and punctuated with all sorts of high and low pitched honks. Fruit vendors cutting open natural freshness for regular patrons. A daab-walla in a lungi deftly beheading coconuts and handing thirsty customers one each, making a neat little mountain of the husks by the road side.

Standing there for a moment in the bustle, I felt I have been cheating on who I am. I was once of this bunch, this breed. Hounding Saha babu for rare copies of "xeroxed editions". I was once that girl who didn't mind squatting on the footpath and getting her hands all dusty with second-hand treasures. Or sniffing old yellow pages imagining the hands they have passed through, fingers that had lovingly held onto those books once, eyes that must have moistened at the time of parting, for a few bucks. Or that girl with a pony tail, scooping the flesh out of a green coconut, even after the water was all over. She was all eager to squeeze out every little joy of life in jeans.

I am not much different now, but the places I look for joys have changed. It is nice to have roots. Memories to go back to. Old paths to travel once more. Like I did today. Maybe I can never go back to where I was - once upon a time. But a visit now or then never hurts, what do you say?

A tramcar on the Mahatma Gandhi Road, where the College Street ends

Lending an ear to daybreak

Mornings and I have had a lasting love affair. Ever since I can remember, I have been a morning person, usually up by 5. And I mean literally up on my feet. Today was no exception. Only I lay awake earlier than usual, not caring to leave the bed or look at my bedside clock. I decided to give the slippers a slip this time. There was an invisible audience clapping their hands at my decision to stay put in bed as I fought a tremendous urge to switch on the lamp and turn to the unfinished book by my side.

I sleep with my windows slightly ajar in winter. Yes, I have strange taste in ventilation. Summers are when I am cooped up within, listening to the soiree of the air-conditioners blowing away to an artificial assurance of chill. Winters are different. While I keep the house sealed off from evening visits of thirsty mosquitoes, I throw my shutters open at bedtime. So that I don’t miss out on the natural cool, the drift of a wintry mist invading my rest. And by then the six-legged vampires have given up trying to break into human realm. There is another reason though. I like the winter morning sounds.

I like imagining a tiny woman in a white robe, with silver hair and silver stilettos running on my shutter ledge, picking up a sweet rhythm as she passes. And sometimes fancy her slipping indoors as I pretend to lie asleep. No Jack Frost for me. O boy, am I messed up? What I mean to say is that I like the resonance and noises that travel through the silent foggy mist during winter. No silly ambient acoustics from droning fans or air-coolers shutting away the natural clamor – of life. Life abuzz at the end of a dark restful night. And I think the dawn is a whole new world altogether. My kind of world, so to speak. With silence in enough measures to distill the sounds you choose to hear.

I crane my neck to trace the source of light that falls straight on my pillow. I discover faint jangle of utensils coming from my neighbor’s kitchen window upstairs. With that the accompanying tinkle of glass bangles. I imagine wet hands bedazzled with red, blue and green caressing stainless steel pots and pans with lather. Someone is up ahead of me, it seems. I close my eyes. I try to focus on the sounds that come afloat from afar. Bollywood numbers wafting from a late night function at a neighborhood cultural club, which obviously has spilled over into the wee hours. The morning call to prayer in the local mosque – there is a strange peace to the bid, though I can never make out what they say. As if they summon believers to the house of god, to share the morning light together – the break of a new day. The sound of cooing pigeons flapping their wings, haunting the cornice of our identical houses, sitting aligned on the overhead tank after their ritual bustle is over. They chatter away as they wait for glass shutters to open and unknown hands litter window sills with their daily ration of cereals.

I sink my head back into the pillow, roll over and look at the sky. It isn’t yet blue but an inky grey. No sign of cloud too, or maybe there is, the fog doesn’t let me see through. I hear the sound of me yawning. Listen to the steady breathing of my son sleeping next to me. I pull the duvet closer, tighter around us. A tap leaking in a washroom. Someone humming a love-song. There is a couple who live next-block, a flight of stairs below. I can see a square of their bed if I push aside my bedroom curtain and pry, which I assure you, I never do. There are exceptions, of course. Like when I want to see their toddler play with his teddy on the bed, his feet up in the air. When I want to listen to the young parents’ baby-talk, urging the little mite to walk on the bed.

- “We will catch your fall, baby, nothing to fear, sweetheart. Come try, walk right into my arms.”

I can listen to their entire morning routine from my bed. Of the child waking the parents up, the mother warming up water to make the formula, the father brushing teeth, talking illegibly through dental froth, flushing his pee down the toilet, and the whole family stirring back to business. I time-travel back to when I was a new mother and although, we had little money, we had time enough for everyone in the family. We had similar cheerful mornings to wake up to. I smile at the memory – not too long ago in years, but somehow it seems like ages now.

Then there is my next-door kaku, whose snores permeate the thick walls of my en suite toilet. The snores have a surge and a drop – a peculiar resemblance to the rise and fall of tides. And come with an assertion that despite his age and ailments, he continues to defy the end. I offer a silent prayer in thankfulness. The old graying pair are substitute parents to me; oftentimes, dropping in at odd hours to complain about aching joints and rising prices. Shortly afterwards, as the dawn breaks into day, there begins the dull upward-downward grind of the elevator. The domestic helps reporting to duty. The security guard turning off lights on corridors. The milkman arriving with his cart. Newspaper delivery boy pushing the fresh print-roll through each collapsible iron gate. The sun demanding that I face the day with my characteristic nonchalance and wait for another daybreak to soak in the daily echoes of living.

Morning, here I come!

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

Picture courtesy: The Internet

Never too late to be a child! Happy Children's Day!

When I was sailing through school in the 80s and the early 90s, my life as a child mostly swirled around books, a handful of friends, an overprotective family of adults, and my home – a two floor affair with airy rooms, large windows and huge verandahs in South Kolkata. You could see the sky in bits and pieces of blue and white, through the sieve of leaves and branches that nestled into each other in the small patch of green adjacent to the ground floor bed room windows. And the garden floor would be a dappled carpet of sun and shade in the mornings.

Sleep-overs at friends’ or relatives’ were a strict no-no for me. Visits to plush malls were still far away in the future. Children's films released only too few to warrant a visit to the theaters. Eating out happened only once or twice in a year. All my outdoor merriment stemmed from that little stretch of greenery walled in by a brick barricade with broken glass shards cemented into the top railing. To ward off pests, my mother said. The garden had a big Shiuli tree, the flowers of which ushered in wistful Autumns with its tiny orange-stemmed wonders, an enormous Neem that carved out not at all a bitter canopy overhead and huge Hibiscus and Gondhoraaj trees, which poured forth perfumed evenings into my sheltered life.

I remember my father fixing a swing for me in the garden that had one end of a rope tied to the trunk of the Shiuli tree, the other end to the Neem’s. It was nothing grand, a thick double rope with a heavy jute sack serving as saddle. I was skinny (oh yes, I was, once upon a time!) so the swing didn’t ever have to take much of a weathering from my bony butt. Butterflies, the varieties I no longer see around, would flutter their mosaic wings and wander from tree to tree, right under my nose, taking absolutely no notice of me. Ants scurried from hill to hill, scouring mounds for food. We had unusual cacti with pink flowers along with needles in the garden as well. I imagined the place to be my secret garden and would take my books there to read. I also had the habit of talking to myself - I had to fill numerous roles - forlorn heroine chained in a sylvan bower, damsel in distress waiting for her demon lover, fighter queen with flowing tresses, stern teacher minding unruly kids, tearful mothers, querulous hussif, so on and so forth. But the need for something real never diminished.

So you can well imagine that school for me had a special significance. A substantially REAL outside world, other than my secret garden. A school-bus ride in the morning, followed by a solemn assembly in the gigantic bus garage, singing prayer hymns in unison or sometimes just lip-syncing, cracking jokes at the teachers we hated, eyeing the new sari or the make-up on that one favorite teacher, nudging each other to grab secret attention for muttered gossip under breath, narrowly escaping punishment for not polishing shoes, or not braiding the locks, standing up on our seats holding ears for not bringing homework, looking at the watch to count the seconds to break time, staring with awe-filled eyes at the seniors, who by some miraculous stroke of luck always appeared stylish and poised, sharing mommy-made tiffin with famished friends, who were always, always hungry, reading, writing, learning, talking, listening, fighting, loving – my childhood was spent in the best school in the world. And out of those fun-filled days each year, two will always be special to me: Teachers’ Day and Children’s day.

The former was a big affair. My mother would bake cup cakes for my favorite teachers. I would spend hours making postcard greetings to express my deep gratitude and admiration for them. The whole school would come together to pool money for treats and presents for the teachers. Rehearsals would continue through months running up to the big day to prepare for the entertainment lined up for the teachers.

Children’s Day in comparison was a low-key affair. When we were littler, we were allowed to wear party dresses to school on that day. As we climbed classes, sprouted breasts, and came to know the worth of short skirts and plunging neck-lines, the school made uniforms mandatory as part of the Children’s Day routine. On a typical day, we would hear a bit about Chacha Nehru, who apparently had great fondness for kids, despite being a philosopher himself – take that! Then wait for packets of sweets, samosa and toffees. My packet, as anyone else’s would always have edible grease marks on them, and as long as it took me to open it, I would keep guessing the contents. Was it a vegetable chop, or a samosa? Was it a kaju barfi or a gaja? Simple modest treats, yet so precious. The teacher dispensing the treats would be greedily watched by our sisterhood of starved souls as she would smile and nod through the seats, filling each outstretched arm with the gastronomic delights. As we gorged on the goodies later on, we would badger our teacher to sing a song or tell us a story. Some would oblige, some would just give us a free period. Whatever it was we would squeal in delight, as if the gift of that one song or that one 45-minute session to do as we liked was the greatest joy in the world.

Life was simple, our pleasures simpler. Haven't we heard that enough already?

Children’s Day doesn’t come to me anymore. It comes to my son now.

I asked my son this morning as he was getting ready for school: Are you not excited? It is Children’s Day today!
He quietly said: Maybe they will give us some shoddy candies, who cares?

And I wonder if I am still a child within myself raising a grown-up backwards? I had just three dolls to play with, and a red plastic tea set. My story books were loaned from neighbors and libraries. Some were my own, of course, bought once in a year, during my annual visit to the book fair.
My son has a room full of toys, gadgets and books. I have learned to say ‘no’ to his demand for new stuff, and yes he doesn’t ask as much anymore. He understands the price of things now but perhaps will take time to appreciate the value of the same things. I guess he understands somehow that he wouldn’t have to wear hand-me-downs or borrow toys and books like his mother did.

For him Children’s Day is just another day, while every year even now, his mother takes that starry-eyed memory-filled walk back to her girl-hood on this day. However, here’s me hoping that my childhood becomes contagious enough to rub off on to my child, and to your child, and to all the adults in the world.

Happy Children’s Day to the child in me! To the child in you!

It is never too late to live a happy childhood!

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As I was posting this blog, my son hopped in, sporting a wide grin, showing off his latest prize - his Children's Day gift today. Here's a shot of his happiness. I am as excited as he is, or even more, if that's possible. I guess we make a weird mom-son duo, right?

For a change, the boy is happy with his Children's Day gift from Mrs Basu, his class teacher.

A toy bike, with eraser tyres

The bike on my laptop

My first storyteller

I grew up under the affectionate care of a child-minder at home. In Bangla, my mother tongue, it is the usual practice to address our nannies respectfully as “Mashi” (aunty). I called her “Didi” (elder sister) simply because my mother called her that. She was perhaps as old as my mother.

Didi had no name. Or maybe we just didn’t know of any. Most of the domestic staff who traveled to my part of the city from Didi’s part of the village called her “Rano’R Maa” (Rano’s mother). She was a widow in her early forties. Her only living relative was Ranojit, her son, who was a rickshaw puller by profession. Didi was always dressed in white khudder sari with a small black border, and wore black rubber flip-flops. She was very short, dark-skinned, almost the color of polished ebony. Her soft oval face was framed by jet black curls of hair.

She came from a village in the outskirts of my city.

And she came with a bag full of stories.

Folklores of the earth. Myths moored to the smell of rural Indian soil.

Of the many stories she had told me, one that stuck in particular to my mind was that of Chander Maa Buri (Old Mother of the Moon). To my little brain she fed the story of an old woman, who sat inside the moon and spun on a wheel making milk white yarns. I really cannot remember with exact clarity if it was her own silver hair that she spooled into threads, or was it the puffy cloud she picked from her neighborhood sky. 

But spin she did. Like no other.

Plucking out clouds or hairs in strands, Buri would twine them into a yarn. This was as endless a process like the earth’s revolution round the sun, as eternal as the continual switch between night and day, as infinite as words rolling into a stories.

It never came to me to question the practical impossibility of sitting down in the moon, where you were supposed to fly without six times your heaviness added in gear. Of course, she was the mother of the moon and clearly commanded greater gravity than us mortals? 

Didi’s round eyes would grow rounder as she stretched her hands outward to show me exactly how big the spinning wheel was. And then her hands would go further up in the air to signify the mass of snowy white tresses this lady had flowing from her head. Buri was also sold early to me as the one goddess to be appeased if I wanted good strong hair. 

I was in awe already. Not because a head-full of hair meant any achievement to me. But more because the sway this hair-goddess held over Didi. 

I didn’t know the art of spinning tales back in those days and fell for this homely yarn with a love that is akin to the love of the miraculous, the impossible. To reinforce the existence of her Buri, Didi brought me dandelion puffs as evidence. Right from the head of the tress mistress, she said. Since Buri never braided her hair, was it not natural that tiny puffs would drop and drift like snowflakes?

And they did drop and drift down to us. Especially during the autumn months. Of course, my child brain did not see the logic behind their seasonal arrival. And the moment I saw a puff floating in the air, Didi recommended in all earnestness, I was to run after it. Chase it down for dear life and stick it in my own hair. That, she said, was a sure shot recipe for thick, glossy, flowing locks. Also, the ghostly white puffs were so ethereal in their appearance, that they confirmed my faith in Buri and her ancient hair-raising spell. 

I did as told.

Years later when I grew up, I realized that Didi actually believed in her story herself. Not for a moment did she doubt the presence of Buri and her homespun hair. Buri was so real to her, that she would push a puff into my mass of curls as soon as she caught one between her rough fingers. Her life revolved around her own narratives, the only vestige of a life she had left behind in her ancestral village.

Can we live without stories? I don’t think I can. We all have our respective spindles to hold the threads of our world together. We twist our realities around spools of fairy tales so that life becomes that one bit easier to live. Sometimes memories buried deep inside the crevices of our minds, forgotten bits of history - personal or impersonal - all merge together until no clear divide between imagination and reality exists. 

The art of storytelling has had a sustaining role to play across cultures. Spinning stories every night had kept Scheherazade of The Arabian Nights alive through one thousand nights. Just as spinning gold thread out of straw had ensured the miller’s daughter her life in Rumpelstiltskin. In Greek mythology, the three daughters of Zeus and Themis – Clotho (spinner), Lachesis (allotter) and Atropos (un-turnable) — are the white-robed sisters of providence, who spin human destiny on their wheel. So while Clotho brushed and spun the yarn – the life of man, Lachesis measured the length of yarn/life given to each mortal. The youngest, Atropos, the goddess of death, did the final cutting of the yarn, ending the life her sisters had been spinning. Women, as I see are mighty good spinsters then. 

What appeals to me as a curious gift attributed to women is their continuous spinning of tales, yarns, narratives, even the metaphorical thread of events called Life. Out of a formless mass of fiber, straw, hair, and cloud or fluid amorphous moments, they give birth to a perfectly tuned thread, which is weaved to give us the 'fabric' like story. Like a miniature life. Like perfectly formed babies. Mini human forms born in perfect but just reduced proportions of length and breadth.

My babysitter, in that sense was my first storyteller. 

Even before Thakurmar Jhuli happened, and the Grimm’s Brothers and Hans Andersen took over my imagination. So when I tell my son a story, I remember Rano’R Maa with a lot of love, my petite Didi from an unnamed village in Bengal.


She gave me my first yarn.

Of fasting-feasting wives

Yesterday I walk into my office and a very pretty face beams at me, putting up two mehendied hands for me to see.

Wow! I say, they look lovely! When did you get them so decorated? I ask Prachita, my colleague, who is an engineer and also a marketing expert in my organization.

 “Yesterday was Karva Chauth, na?” She smiles.

“But isn’t your man in the US now?” I ask.

“Yes, we broke the fast together over Skype.” She explains.

Karwa Chauth Mehendi on hands (Source: Internet)

***********

A few days ago, recovering from the afterglow of the Pujas, I had written an article on Sindoor Khela (the annual vermilion bash of married Bengali women, when they say goodbye to the Goddess Durga). Expressing my thought that any compulsory sign a woman is forced to carry of her marital status signifies subversion of her identity as a human being. Having said that, I also wrote that wearing or not wearing any such sign is completely a matter of personal choice and if I am willing to gun down a woman for wanting to flaunt her sindoor, I am just the other face of the dictatorial patriarchal coin. Or maybe just as bad a matriarchal battle post!

 A lot of interesting debate took place on my article as I sat reading impressive academic stands on the usage of “sindoor”. And given the fact that I have some highly capable friends, many of whom teach in esteemed universities, or practice in international hospitals, their arguments were far from being just empty anger against tradition or even its opposite – blind faith in any convention. As always, I gained a lot of knowledge from just reading their comments and was sad when everyone went home at the end of it.

This week, when some of my friends celebrated Karva Chauth, I was intrigued to find out the origin of the ritual – slammed down by imperious feminists for being anti-women. Really? I asked myself.

If Karva Chauth was that bent on bringing women down, why was my globetrotter friend Sutapa Agrawal posting pictures of her pretty face behind a sieve? Why was my school senior Reshmi di, a writer and a woman of great substance, all dressed up and posting KC party pictures with her beautiful and accomplished girl-friends? Surely there was something that made all these enlightened women happy about KC? And happy they all were – though all of them are perfectly capable of seeing through any vicious scheme behind any ritual designed to bring their kind down. 

I was eager to find out. And here is what I found.

Karva Chauth is a one-day festival celebrated by Hindu women in North India and Gujarat in which married women fast from sunrise to moon-rise for the safety and longevity of their husbands. Sometimes, unmarried women observe the fast for their fiancés or would-be husbands. (Remember Kajol in Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge? Ah, the romance of it!)

Karva is another word for 'pot' (a small earthen pot of water) and chauth means 'fourth' in Hindi (the festival falls on the fourth day of the dark-fortnight, of the month of Kartik). There is no strict consensus on the origin of the ritual. I found out the following likely reasons behind it:

1.       Around end October many of the mighty rivers in the Northern part of India dry up after the deluge of monsoons gets over. Military campaigns and long distance tours being impossible during the rains, it was only at this time that men of the households would venture away from home in search of livelihood . And women/beloveds/fiances, who would stay back home for months on end waiting for their men would observe the ritual to pray for their safe return home. Sweet, is it not?

2.       The north of India is predominantly wheat eating. Being the largest consumer of wheat, north India is also the largest producer of wheat. Karwa Chauth overlaps with the onset of the Rabi crop cycle in India, when farmers would plant wheat in the fields. Big earthen pots (Karvas) would store the wheat and women would fast in their homes (since the men would work out in the fields in the sun and couldn’t go without food through the day) to pray for a good harvest. Still don’t see anything demeaning to women in here!

3.       The interesting bit comes now and is my favorite. Earlier, teenage girls got married and went miles away from home to live with their in-laws in remote villages. Telephone/email/Facebook had not yet arrived. Venting out ineffectual anger on status updates were still not the vogue. To make the new bride feel at home, a cute custom of befriending another woman, usually a bride from the same village, but not related to the in-laws family, as kangan-saheli (bangle-girlfriend) or dharma-behn (god-sister) was started. (Cool that they actually thought about young brides in those days so much!) This relationship between girlfriends was sanctified in a small ceremony and they would confide in each other in all matters of the heart. Karva Chauth started as a festival to celebrate this special bond of friendship between the brides and their god-friends. They would dress up together and have fun at the ritual and look at the moon together, while not having to work the whole day. The notion of praying and fasting for the husband came much later and is secondary. However, the husbands would anyway play a role in the ritual, because it was only after getting married the brides would be able to carry the frolic out. So the girls would celebrate their husbands thankfully for bringing the blessing of a new girlfriend in their lives. They would buy news Karvas (clay pots), handpaint them and put girly items like bangles, ribbons, henna and shringar (cosmetics) inside before exchanging the pots.

4.       There are mythological origins to the festival too. There is a story of queen Veervati and how she lost her husband being tricked by her brothers to break her fast, etc. And there is this story about Draupadi, who was advised by Krishna, her sakha to do a Karva Chauth for the safe return of Arjuna. Indeed there is a lot of power given to women, who can either end or bring back their dead husbands’ lives by undergoing a simple fast. Don’t you think?

Well, so much for the origins. Now, how is the custom observed in current times?

Women celebrating Karva Chauth together (Source: Internet)

Today, a typical Karva Chauth day begins with the mother in law making sargi (early morning meal) for the bride, and all the bride ever does on Karva Chauth is eat her fill of that meal and relax through the day waiting to dress up and have fun with her girlfriends in the evening. Newer versions of the ritual don’t even include a fast! Women eat vegetarian food through the day. Some eat chocolates and drink Horlicks! Also, with the monsoon harvests being over, there is no dearth of homemade sweets and treats to gorge on. Masti unlimited, what say?

Happily, no one believes that fasting will actually enhance the span of lives. I asked a male friend, Ashwin, if he would fast for his wife on Karva Chauth. He said:

 “Of course, not. I don’t believe fasting for anyone will elongate their lives. Most of the time, I am fasting anyways, because when our cook doesn’t show up, I don’t get to eat. My wife will much on cereals and nuts, as she doesn’t know how to cook. I don’t like to eat dry food. But she will remember to ask for an expensive gift on Karva Chauth, as a prize for a half day fast. I oblige because I love her and it touches my heart to see her take so much pain of going without eating for so much of an hour!.”

Media and advertising campaigns have also a lot to contribute in bringing KC in global focus driving millions of bucks around this one festival urging men to buy some of the costliest of gifts for their “fasting-feasting” and pampered wives. So in an interesting twist of presentation, the festival becomes an oriental version of Valentine’s Day – and truly, the essence of both KC and Valentine’s Day is the same – celebrating love and togetherness for a day, when the rest of the year, couples are too busy with careers, housework or childcare to “demonstrate” their love for each other.

Relationships are changing every day. To complicate matters, we have the stern gaze of feminists at every corner waiting to swoop in and make a fresh meal out of every tradition. Without waving their angry baton at each and every bit of legacy that we have, where is their raison d'être? I have friends who work in NGOs to help under privileged women. I don’t see them charading on Facebook attacking feminine rituals ever. But then the world is full of angry young women.

Now to allay this existential crisis for these self styled feminists, I ask a question:  if women fasting, depriving their bodies of nutrition through days to lose pounds of fat (which is medically totally unscientific I tell you!) can be a matter of choice, why can’t a woman's one-day fast for the long life of her husband (also unscientific!) be equally a matter of choice? You think this KC is an evil because it is forced on women? Well then, do women get married forcibly? Some yes, but not all. If marriage is an institution of choice by now, why can’t any ritual associated with marriage be the same?

And since nothing in India goes without the pop whiff of Bollywood in it, let me also point out a contradiction in how we perceive our women in films. Hindi mainstream films have over the reels, romanticized the character of a love smitten heroine fasting for her would-be/actual husband (mind it, a guy she has chosen for herself against her parent’s express wishes), who incidentally also fasts for her. So the same canvas or screen that shows the heroine choosing her man in act of rebellion also shows her fasting for the same man. How does the first act become an exercise of choice and the second a convoluted social construct to nullify all her freedom?

In our post-modernist milieu, when women are taking great strides in every male-dominated bastion, is it not foolish to assume that they don’t know their mind yet and are just being coerced to follow a meaningless ceremony?

Karva Chauth may be sniggered upon by many, but that does not take away the socio-cultural dynamics of it. Once restricted to the north, it has now taken over the entire nation as a festival of bonhomie among women. I used to raise cynical eyebrows at Bongs for throwing Sangeet and Mehendi parties before their marriages. No longer. I understand how rituals pervade geographical boundaries and enrich each other. And it is interesting to watch a similar evolution of KC across the years too.

My understanding of Karva Chauth is limited still, but I understand this that respecting women has got nothing to do with bashing up an ancient custom. As long as it doesn’t hurt or harm anyone, and acts as a great enabler of a community coming together for innocent fun – however frivolous the excuse maybe, I am willing to give it my nod of approval. Sometimes some people would revolt without a cause and the contradictions pointed out by them around “sindoor khela” and “Karva Chauth” are more apparent than real.

Apurva Purohit, CEO of Radio City 91.1FM and an IIM Bangalore alumnus says:

“No mother-in-law, no relatives and certainly not society, need have a point of view on this decision. It’s got nothing whatsoever to do with anyone! Including so called modern day feminists who suddenly decide to write articles on the retrograde nature of the fast and snigger at women who are following this tradition. To my mind they are being just as judgmental and censorious and quite as intrusive as the mother-in-law who forces her daughter-in-law to keep the fast! The burden of tradition bound expectations is just as onerous as the mantle that gets forced on us to be contemporary ‘with it’ women who scoff at all things that our mothers did!

And frankly why should anyone have anything to say about a subject which is essentially between me, my husband and the moon? Right?”

Right, I say. Let the choice remain with the women.

Women celebrating KC in Kolkata. (Source: The Hindu)