Of Gourmets, Ghosts and Goddesses (Durga Puja Journal - VI)

A frozen margarita sky wrapped itself around Calcutta this Saptami morning. The first day of Durga Puja – the rainclouds remind me of exotic drinks. Shared with shiny-faced people with glowing skin, in a far-off country. Many years ago. With the sun outside, and wistfuly thinking of Durga Puja being celebrated far away at home.

But today I have woken up early. Egged on by those around me. The roads suddenly look clean. Early in the morning perhaps roads in every city look clean. I am preparing myself for the Goddess. I have started avoiding crowds, I have become a bit apprehensive. What, with the wanton taking of lives in the name of whatever suits radicals on every side, religious or otherwise. Religious radicals or progress-radicals or `freedom'-loving radicals. And so, to avoid crowds, to try to return home perhaps, in one piece, we are driving down south, this early in the morning.

The road to the south, recently repaired, perhaps to give us a better Pujo ride, goes by lakes brimful. The coconut palms on the far banks throw trembling shadows on the water. I hear the first beats of the dhak. It comes to us from somewhere beyond those waters. On the far side, beyond those trees, among the cluster of buildings the man beating the dhak is the first messenger of the Goddess, speaking to me. His festive beats is the music of life, talking, singing, laughing proudly in the face of death.

But the driver is going too fast. I signal him to slow down, I snap on the seat belt. We have entered the city. We stop in front of a pandal and those accompanying me step out. I can see her from the car and so prefer sitting inside. Early morning lethargy is still creeping in my blood. The pandal is modest but in good taste. She is slim, with beautiful eyes. Mahisasura, who she is slaying, is a bit-lacking in expression. We stop again at Gariahat and visit some pandals on foot.

The roads are just beginning to come alive. Along the footpaths, barricaded with bamboo walls, small groups of men and women are walking leisurely. We join them. Many of the pandals have been decorated by artists. The artists have had their say in the design of the image and have left their unmistakable mark on many. Some I liked, some didn’t mean anything to me at all.

One of these south Calcutta Pujos has a Daliesque Goddess floating in mid air with a blue halo around her. She is memorable and I am sure she will intrigue us even more at night, when the hidden lights in the cave-like structure where she is residing, are switched on. To me she is both a poignant surrealist image and also one that could be brought about by hallucinogens. Something like magic mushrooms or peyote cactus.This image of the Goddess interests me much as my second novel (to be published) has themes quite akin.

In another pandal in the south, the Godess is in the form of a carved stone image (see image at the beginning of this post) of an ancient temple. Stylised with the aura of the ancient about her, she glows in the clever reddish lighting that have been used there.

We drive to other parts of the city. Many pandals have installed CCTV cameras and they remind me of shopping malls and big department stores. Their sight leave me a bit sad. Sadness, irritation, bitterness. The sight of the cameras and all that they stand for, what is before them, what lies in their past, leaves my mouth dry. I feel a faint throbbing in my head. Maybe it’s time to eat.

We drink tea at Park Street in a large, well-lighted place with newly-printed No Smoking signs all over the walls. The signs remind me of the cameras in the pandals. What do they have in common? We walk a little up the road to a place where they serve a mix of Gujerati and north Indian savouries. They even do dosas, but we have arrived too early for that. We eat tasty, ghee-soaked sweets, some of us have kachoris. The jalebis they serve are works of art by themselves. As I walk out I am accosted by a small girl in a torn frock. She has a tired worn face, there is the redness of some disease in her eyes, she wants me to buy something from her. A box of paper napkins. I take the box from her and for one last time look at her. Her eyes are suddenly bright. She has smiled somehow, I notice. She runs across the streets and vanishes near the French restaurant. The restaurant with the French sounding name, and the associations with Toulouse-Lautrec. It’s time to head north.

We stop at a few pandals in Central Calcutta. On the way we plan lunch. Lunch – Chinese or Mughlai, Chinatown or Arsalan? At last we settle for Chinese. Tomorrow (Ashtami) it will be home-cooked vegetarian fare. Nabami, of course is the day for mutton – biriyani or kosha or maybe the classic kochi-pathar jhol with rice.

The frozen margarita has melted and a fine rain has begun. Rain like spray; here in Bengal we call it illshaguri. We huddle into a pandal. A folksy Goddess, made from bamboo or what could be wood. Stylised and beautiful, and in another pandal a group of beggars has taken shelter near the goddess. They form a circle of silence around the brightly-lit image of the Mother, the saviour, the protector, the banisher of evil. The beggars hold out their hands, dignified and calm. And surely, perhaps because the pujo-revellers do not want to miss out on their share of good-karma, the beggars get more then they expect. The Goddess smiles a cryptic smile, the beggars count their nickels, surrounding the platform where she stands. Like practioners of an occult sect. I am suddenly scared and step quickly out of that pandal.

The crowds have begun to swell but walking up to the pandals is still comfortable. One of the Pujos, is making a statement in the context of Tata’s Nano small-car project. The pandal is made to look like closed factories and there is a model of the Nano car near the entrance. The message is clear. Open the closed factories before taking on new industrial projects.

We drive deeper into the north. To the oldest neighbourhoods of Calcutta. On the way we take-in another famous Pujo which is themed this year around environment. Another way to spread the much needed message that we cannot go on plundering the resources of the planet and behaving like a bull in a china-shop, so to say. The earth has its limits, Sister-mother Earth (to use St Francis’ words) is patient, but her patience is running out fast.

The Pujos of the north have a different aura. They seem to be steeped in history and tradition. Well, not all, but many of them. The Goddess at Bagbajar Sarbojanin is the traditional ekchala image (maa Durga and her family on a single platform). The pandal is styled after an ancient temple, the tales from the Puranas adorn its interiors. On our way out from this pandal we discover the traveling Banarasi paan-seller. His shop is on a raised platform and his advertisements, written in Dev-nagri say, he has been traveling all over the country selling his rare betel-leaves. Amitabh Bachchan in his film Don did much good for the Banarasi pan-seller as the opportunities provided by these festivals, where he brings his rare offering. Every connoisseur knows how the Banarsi paan melts slowly in your mouth, releasing it’s delicate cocktail of flavours of aromatic tobacco, areca nuts and spices.

Perhaps after Durga Puja is over, he will travel northwards again. For Diwali – the festival of lights and then perhaps when the winter is fresh, he will take his wares to Punjab or to southern India in time for Pongal or some other festival whose name is unknown to me. Perhaps he will go another way. He could, after a good-year’s earnings even decide to go back to his village, on the ghats of the wide Ganga, where on a cold evening he may be telling his wife and children of the strange places he has been, the people he has met on the road. They will listen wide-eyed to his story but what is strange to them will no longer have been strange to him. My memories of this Durga Puja will be of the Benarasi paan-seller traveling across the country, traveling alone and confident, bringing the delicate taste of his betel-leaves and the aroma of spices, like a salve for suffering souls.

Copyright: Rajat Chaudhuri 2008. Published article. All rights reserved.