Durga Pujo Countdown; 30 days

The countdown finally hits 30days! Yayyy!

23days more for Mahalaya.

 

Images from Gettyimages

 I decide I have had enough of listening to Mahalaya on CD. Ever since I moved out of Kolkata, I havent listened to the radio. But, this time it will be the radio.
...
The charm and excitement of keeping the radio all set for the recital next morning, one last glance at it before you hit the bed, waking up 15minutes prior to the recital, painful efforts at tuning to the correct station and then listening to it is an experience nothing can match.

Back to good, old times....good old days...So am out loking for a radio.

As I ask the dealers for a radio, they show me big systems with radio built in them. No, I want the old, smaller ones. They look at me amazed. One of them smirks and tells me 'those days are gone, Madam'. Another tells me to buy a mobile with FM.

I give up and leave it to the husband to locate one.

#Pujocountdown

Durga Pujo Countdown; 31 days

Next month today, September 29 will be Maha Panchami.

This is the day when the Goddess is brought on a wooden cart to most pandals or households.

The complex where I live in Kolkata, the Goddess is carried on a huge wooden cart, which i...s pulled by scores of men.

The Goddess and her entourage are brought in after midnight when the city is finally silent and the traffic has lessened.

These men pull the cart and even balance it on their shoulders all the way to our housing societies. Their unanimous cries can be heard from a distance. 'Jor lagake....dhirey cholo, abar cholo, bolo Durga Mai Ki Jai' are some of the familiar cries we can hear from a distance.

These cries are just the beginning of a week of festivity, fun and louder cries.

31 days more!

#pujocountdown

Image from gettyimages

Durga Pujo Countdown 32 days

32 days more...

 

 I have a variety of fragrances at home to suit all seasons and all occasions. I get them from Kolkata and have a stock which lasts a year.

Fragrances have a deep meaning to me. I an relate them with my mother, my grandmoth...er, my grandfather, the house in Burdwan, my house in Kolkata. Strange, nah?

Light, floral Agarbattis remind ne of Ma in a crisp white, cotton sari, fresh after a bath. I have never seen Ma looking dishevelled or smelling bad. She would smell of roses, sometimes of jasmine, depending on the season and yes, her mood.

Dadima, my maternal grandmother was a very warm person who would envelop me in huge bear hugs and put light, feathery kisses on my forehead. It was always sandal with her.

Dadu was a Mahabhakt of Bajrangbali. The incense would be much stronger and masculine. Mogra, it was.

Dadubhai and Thamma were very pious. I would always think of the heady mix of the variety of incense sticks that they would light every eveningand yes, the Dhuna.

Dhuna always takes me back to Mangala di, a lady whom my paternal grandfather had given shelter and soon became an integral part of our family and my childhood. Winters in the burdwan house would be tightly shut windows, the evening arati and bhajans and Mangali Di waving the fumes emanating from the Dhuna as she moved from one room to room.

Away from Kolkata, away from the people I love the most and with some of my loved ones above, I try to recreate similar environment here.

I have jasmine to think of Ma, I have sandal for Dadima, I have Mogra for Dadu, I have Bharat Darshan for dadubhai.

The dhoona dhup is a must for those wintry evenings when its too cold outside while we are tucked indoors completing our homework.
Fragrances are a part of our life. For me they are a chunk of my childhood and I want to pass it on to my child so that someday when he is older and we are not around, he has memories to fall back upon.

Anyways, its Bharat Darshan, sandal and dhuno as the festive season sets in!

#pujocountdown

Haalkhaata;the traditional ledger

When I was a little child, there were many words In Bangla which posed a difficulty while writing or pronouncing them. But, Akshay Tritiya was never one of them! I could write and pronounce it with ease as I would wait the whole year for this day. Akshay Tritiya was an important occasion for us. It meant countless invitations from the shop-owners, wearing pretty dresses and eating “mishti’! My eyes would also be on those huge, tightly bound, red -covered books that the owners kept with great care.

I did not know what those big, long, red books were. But, the smell of fresh, new stationery has always attracted me. Those books looked regal as they sat piled up one after the other on the little desk of the Mahajan (trader).

My grandmother's Haalkhaata

I had my first Haalkhaata when I turned 10. My paternal great grandmother had passed away. Her almirah was left open and we were given the freedom to choose anything that we liked from her wardrobe. My eyes never left her Haalkhaata. It was my biggest treasure, as I would spend hours scribbling and drawing on that book. It was a possession of pride as well. I exhibited it to my mates in school who had never seen such a big notebook.

My attachment and nostalgia with the ‘Haalkhaata’ continued. My maternal grandmother passed away last year. Probably, she knew she would not last long and had distributed most of her belongings to my aunts and grandchildren. After her passage, Ma handled me a big, long bundle wrapped in a sari. It was a Haalkhaata that our forefathers had used. My grandmother was aware of my fetish for stationery and my love for Haalkhaata.

The entry on the Haalkhaata shows that it dates back to the Bengali year of 1300. It was written nearly 121 years ago by my paternal great great grandfather. It’s unimaginable. It has the handwritten entries of my great grandfather followed by my grandmother who managed our Zamindari. Those were the days when we did not have ready-to-use, fancy fountain pens. The initial writings are with the help of a feather dipped in ink.

 A page from the Haalkhaata

This Haalkhaata is a repository of memories. It accounts for the power and authority our family wielded over vast areas of Bengal, the taxes paid by them, the yield from crops and then proceeds to cover details of how we lost one after the other. My father says ‘a generation builds property and wealth painstakingly, and the next generation spends time squandering them away’. In our case, disputes, illegal acquisition and betrayal by the field officers were some reasons behind our loss of wealth and power.

The handwriting over the period of years is another treasure of mine. It can put Calligraphy to shame. Those fancy twirls, the loops and the bends are a delight. Writing is indeed an art!

Haalkhaata, as the name describes is a traditional notebook which depicts your ‘haal’ or state of affairs or one’s current stake. It’s a log book which describes each and every affair of the business. Every single rupee, paisa or anna spent or received would find an entry into it. It was maintained by the men of the household or the Karmacharis (the designated staff). There was not just one, but many haalkhaatas depending on the magnitude of the household/business.

Haalkhaatas are remnants of the Zamindari culture. Zamindars or landowners had vast tracts of land scattered around with innumerable ‘prajas’ (the people who lived in these areas or worked for the Zamindars). Accounts related to maintenance of land, taxes paid by the ‘prajas’, yield from crops, losses incurred were some of the major overheads in this ledger. A detailed accounting was necessary to keep track of all these activities. Hence every property had its own haalkhaata, maintained and regularly updated by the overseer/Nayeb.

Haalkhaatas for the household expenses were separate and in most cases maintained by the women of the family, with inputs from the Nayeb.

This how the entries were made

Haalkhaatas are usually very long and rectangular and has a white thread to tie it around securely. The regal, red cover is made from a kind of grass called ‘Khero’, hence the name ‘Kheror Khaata’ used by many.

This system of accounting continued as long as the Zamindars held their sway. After that, it was used mainly for household expenses. The practice continued till the households switched to smaller, less bulky, convenient notebooks. The tradition, finally, lost the battle with the advent of digital media.

Haalkhaata is still prevalent in small towns of West Bengal amongst the traders. They consider it a good omen for account keeping. A petty goldsmith in Burdwan, tells me, ‘I did switch over to small notebooks and diaries once. And that year proved to be a disaster. I had never seen such huge losses and the reasons were inexplicable. It was much later that I realized that the Goddess Lakshmi was angry with me. I did a special Pujo to please the Goddess and Lord Ganesha and bought a new haalkhaata. My business never saw a bad day since then’. Such is their belief in the traditional accounting system.

Every Akshaya Tritiya, the old haalkhaatas are replaced with newer, richer versions of the logbook. It starts with a Puja in the morning where Lord Ganesha and Goddess Lakshmi are venerated. The new haalkhaatas are placed as an offering to the deities during the Pujo. A streak of Haldi/turmeric is applied to each of them. ‘Om Ganeshai Namah’ is written on the first page. The entries start from the next page. Guests are invited to this ceremony and food packets are distributed to all.

This is a festival in itself, though restricted to small towns and some pockets in Kolkata.

The story of Shamli and Maili

It was one of those typical hot summer days, when nothing makes sense. There was no respite from the scorching heat. Even the shade of the Peepal tree seemed inadequate. Shamli finally decides to sit down and take a break. She has been working in the fields since morning. Even a minutes rest is difficult to spare. Well, there’s not much she can complain about. Shamli is aware of the financial difficulties that have bogged down her master. Otherwise Ramlal is a good man. He and Malkin have given her much love and affection. One can very well call them her foster parents. 

Shamli’s mind drifts back to that day when she had stepped into Ramlal’s family and become one of their own. Her eyes shut down in deep slumber while her mind raced back to the long, forgotten past.

Shamli was eleven years old and lived with her Ma. She had no clue about her father, who, like many other ‘lompot’ (loose character) men, had taken advantage of her mother and then left her with a child. Since then, it has only been the two of them. Her mother had struggled hard to bring up her little girl. She lost her beauty and youth, toiling hard in the fields. The masters were ruthless, they beat and tortured her. The weather was equally merciless. Her sufferings ended at dusk, only to begin anew as it darkened further. The lusty men would turn up then. Shamli was a witness to her mother’s ordeal. Every day, they prayed for a release from this pain. 

Finally the ordeal ended. Shamli’s mother decided to go back to her maternal home. 

One early morning they set out for their village. They walked past the hills, the river, and then the huge meadow that led to the little village. Shamli’s mother grew excited as the village drew closer. She kept telling her little girl, stories of her childhood, about Shamli’s grandparents, her aunts and uncles. Shamli shivered with anticipation. 

They arrived at the railway crossing which connected the village to the city. This was the final crossing and then they would be home. Shamli heard her mother sing, her beautiful voice soaring higher and higher as she danced to it. She stood back and looked at her mother who had never looked so ethereal. She had never seen her mother happier. ‘I wish she would always be happy and beautiful like this. Please God grant me this wish’! 

That was the last thing Shamli remembered. She saw a huge flash of red, heard her mother’s cry and a huge roar. Then there was nothing. She woke up to find people everywhere. Angry voices reverberated around. And then she saw her mother. They had never heard the train, neither its whistle nor the engine. Just the final roar before it hit and cut her mother into two neat slices. The sight was gory but the little child thought of the freedom her mother had finally attained. The daily torture, the nightly rape and the fear of facing her family was at last wiped out. She was gone far, very far from her.  

Little Shamli shed tears, as she sat for hours mourning her mother, mourning the loss of the family that she had dreamt of. Without her mother, she had no hope of tracking them down ever. The crowd cleared and some men led her mother’s body away for the final rites. She watched as they dug a grave for the body, piled earth on it, relegating to oblivion, the traces of a beautiful woman who had just hours ago, sung a beautiful song.

She turned back, but realized she had nowhere to go. Shamli had for long, led a protected life. But there was no one to shield her anymore. The hawks were already closing in on her. At eleven, she knew she was the prettiest. Her milky complexion, her big eyes and her pink mouth were already an object of envy amongst her friends while the boys yearned for her. She was aware of the way men looked at her. How long would Shamli be able to protect herself?  What if the train had hit her too? She shuddered and sighed. 

A cool hand closed on her forehead. She looked up to see an elderly man looking down at her. The sympathy and love in his eyes was unmistakable! That was Ramlal, her master. He had cradled her head that day as she cried. In those few minutes, Shamli knew that she had found a father in him. Ramlal took her home, introduced her to his family and there was no looking back since then. He was a wealthy man and took good care of her. She grew and blossomed under the Malkin’s care and repaid them by toiling hard in his fields. 

She finally met her match in Nathu, a local boy who was besotted with her since he had first seen her. But her happiness was short-lived. He disappeared one night. The patches of blood in the cow shed where he spent the night, the bloody rope that he kept with him and the paw marks of a leopard were enough to let everyone guess what had happened. His body was never found. Shamli was numb with pain. The days passed in agony. She worked hard in the field, lay awake for nights till the first wave of nausea hit her. She realized within a few days that Nathu was now alive within her. Shamli bounced back with a fresh lease of life. Few months later a baby was born to her, a daughter she would cherish for all the years to come. The baby was dark and resembled her father. Everyone thought she was the ugliest baby in the village. But she was the prettiest to her mother. The villagers called her Maili. Shamli called her Maii, ‘my mother’.  

Maili was now seven years old and growing up fast under the care of Shamli and Malkin. Ramlal was too old and his health was gradually failing him. His sons had left the village many years back. Badelal arrived home every two months to claim his share in the field. But never offered a helping hand to his old father, nor gave him money when his father mortgaged Malkins jewellery. Chotelal was never seen again. 

This year was an extremely difficult one. The monsoons were late. They arrived when the crop was lush and ruined everything. Then, a fire at the godown destroyed last year’s harvest which had been carefully stored. There was no buffer left for next year. Payment to the laborers were pending. Ramlal had nothing left, except for the few barren tracts of land. He had never felt so forlorn. 

Shamli took each day as it came. Food was getting scarce. The Malkin always kept away some food for Maili before serving anyone else. But the rations wouldn’t last long. She knew Ramlal had no option but sell the land to the mill owners who have been after him for quite some time. The day came sooner than she had expected. Raghuvir, the man behind the rice mills, arrived one morning. After a heated exchange, the price was negotiated, the deed signed and payment made to Ramlal. Next morning Badelal arrived and demanded a share of the money. The land could have been his future, is what he told his old father. Hence the sons should have their rightful share. The money was divided into three and Badelal left with both the shares and after a proper lunch. 

Shamli and Maili usually slept near the cowshed. As it grew dark, the stifling heat gave way to a cool breeze. The night progressed and it gradually grew colder. Maili would snuggle up to her mother for warmth. This was bliss to her. This village, her friends, the house, Malkin, everyone was so dear to her. She would never leave this place, is what she promised herself. 

That night, it was late. Shamli could see Ramlal sitting on the Khatiya outside. He had refused dinner. Shamli knew he was thinking of all the good times that he had had. All of a sudden, Ramlal slumped to the ground. He was frothing from the mouth and was incoherent. The village Kabiraj was called in. Medicines and herbs were administered. They kept a steady vigil the whole night. The sun rose the next morning, but Ramlal left his lifeless body behind. 

The sons arrived. Ramlal’s last rites were performed. They decided to sell off the house and the adjoining land for more money and shift their mother to the city. Despite Malkins protests, everything was arranged and executed in haste. No one uttered a word about Shamli and Maili. Shamli decided it was time for her to leave the household. Taking leave of the Malkin who held on to her, she gathered her belongings and directed a reluctant Maili to get ready. 

She heard voices outside. One of them was Ranjhu, the village dalal. She wondered why Ranjhu was here after all these years. This was the same man who had tried to misbehave with her. Ramlal’s timely intervention had saved her that day. Since then the master had forbade the dalal from stepping into their courtyard. A strange foreboding filled her. She rushed to Maili and hid her behind. 

Badelal and Ranjhu entered. Ranjhu, after all these years had grown much older but had not lost the wicked gleam in his eyes. His eyes raked in Shamli and Maili for quite some time. Shamli could feel her little girl’s unease. ‘Sold’, was the only word, that the lecherous man uttered before leaving the shed. Shamli knew what it meant. She pleaded Badelal to spare Maili. But he repeated that he needed money. 

With a resigned look on her face, Shamli and Maili gathered their bags and followed Ranjhu. They followed the same route which Shamli had once taken with her mother. She hoped that Maili would find a savior to take her to a new home. They trudged miles, as the morning gave way to afternoon and then to evening. There was nothing to eat but a few drops of water to drink from a pitcher that Ranjhu slung from his shoulders. 

As the sun set, they came upon a huge meadow. Shamli was surprised to find scores of women and men seated there. Each had a story of their own. Some were old and feeble, while many were young and energetic. And they all awaited their fate. Shamli learnt that their walk was over for the day. The next day they would begin their walk again. She further learnt that they would all congregate at a village near Anukul. An auction would be held for all of them. 

Shamli was stupefied. She had heard such sordid tales before, but never thought that this would happen to her. She knew what would become of the young, luscious ones, but, she was clueless why the old and haggard were being taken. Her questions had no answers. The old and senile were fast asleep. Some were barely conscious after the day’s walk and starvation. Dinner had been sparse. Some corn and broth were all that they had been given. And the quantity was meager. Shamli had given up her share to Maili. She lay awake the whole night crooning songs to her little girl. Escape was ruled out as there were men guarding them.  An escape would mean vicious torture for them. She hoped that her little girl found a good man the next day. That was all she could pray. Maili slept while Shamli watched the sky turn into a reddish hue.

Soon they were all gathered into smaller herds and made to march. The day grew warmer and oppressive. But nothing stopped them. Not even when a frail old woman passed out. Water was sprinkled on her and she was assisted by a young man. But she couldn’t make it for long. She lost the struggle. Her body was unceremoniously dumped beside the river. No arguments for a decent burial worked with Ranjhu. He maintained that the wild animals would have a good feast that night. Shedding silent tears, the herd marched on. They did not stop when the little boy of five started retching. His mother picked him up and tried carrying him. But she had nothing left in her. The boy was the next casualty. Little Maili had grown silent. She had never seen so many deaths in a day. The sufferings were too hard for her to bear. She wept uncontrollably. The little delays had made it impossible for the group to reach the fair that night. They halted beside the river. This halt had been unplanned. Food was very scarce. The young and the supposedly strong went hungry. The night was calm, but filled with occasional sighs and gasps. That night saw few more casualties. Ranjhu seemed happy as the casualties comprised mostly of senior citizens. 

The morning began early. They started their walk again. The huge group reached the fair by mid-morning. A square platform had been built in the centre to showcase the ‘specimens’ while seating arrangements had been made around it. Shamli watched in disgust as people went up, one after the other, to be exhibited, prodded with fingers, poked, weighed and then named a price. The bidding was much sober when the old and senile went up. The excitement and fervor reached its peak when the specimen was a young man or woman. The bidders rushed to the platform to inspect her, scrutinize her from all angles and quote a price. The bidders went insane on seeing fresh, new flesh. Many a woman was disrobed on this platform much to the delight of the onlookers. It was a sickening sight. 

Finally it was time for Shamli to climb up the dais. As she went up, keeping her head high, she felt nauseous. She kept her eyes tightly shut as if that was the only way she could transport herself far away from the reality. She knew what would happen next. As she counted seconds, nothing happened. She did not feel anyone jabbing his fingers into her. But she did hear the world ‘sold’. Surprised she opened her eyes and looked up into the kind eyes of Ramlal. Ramlal? No, how  could it be Ramlal?

It was Chotelal, Ramlal’s youngest son who had bidden for Shamli. How could he forget his childhood with Shamli? She has always been his best friend. Older to him by a few years, it was Shamli who would stand guard by the infant Chotey as Malkin wrapped up her household chores. It was Shamli who would accompany him to school every day. It was Shamli who had once saved him from the older bullies. The pretty, docile Shamli had threatened those big boys with a spade. How can he forget how Shamli had stood by his father for all the years? He felt ashamed that he couldn’t do anything when Shamli and Maili were sold to the evil Ranjhu. 

They embraced each other and wept. They were tears of joy. He whispered that he had also ‘bought’ Maili and they would all live happily ever after. 

P.S: Well, now the last bit for you. This mother-daughter duo are cows who were headed to the village fair. While Shamli, who was well past her youth, was destined to be slaughtered, Maili would have been sold as a help to a tiller. Every year I see huge herds of cows, traversing miles after miles, only to be sold or slaughtered. Starved and weak, many die during this arduous journey. While the old, haggard ones are slaughtered for their meat, bones and skin, the younger ones are auctioned off to the highest bidder. As human beings, our ignominy is no different from theirs.  Trafficking is a huge issue that faces us.

Kaalboishakhi; the wrath of the Nature God!

If Boishakh is here, can a Kalboishakhi be far behind? 

As I write this post, I can hear the wind blowing hard against the window panes, the trees shaking in terror, dark clouds looming above, people shouting and screaming as they clear up their terrace and balcony.

Kalboishakhi is a thunderstorm which occurs during Boishakh or early April. Boishakh commences from mid April, but most Kalboishakhis start arriving from mid March onwards. Kalboishakhi, as the name implies, is a calamity of the Boishakh month.

A Kalboishakhi is hard to predict. It typically follows a very hot day. They are also known as ‘afternoon’ storms as they occur mostly in the afternoon or early evenings. Known as Norwester in other parts of the country, the storm starts with gusts of wind from the north-western direction. In simple language, they are thunderstorms accompanied with thunder, lightning and heavy shower. 

KALBOISHAKHI IN FULL FORCE

Commonly, the skies start darkening with clouds gradually, followed by a sudden increase in the velocity of wind. This rise in tempo is sudden and often captures one unaware. 

A relief during the summer season, Kalboishakhis brings respite from the oppressive heat and brings down the temperature by several notches.

This rain is very important for all the crops that are sown during this season. Proper showers are essential for the sustenance of these crops. But, they also cause widespread damage and destruction. Trees bearing fruits suffer the most as most of them are not able to bear the brunt of a Kalboishakhi. 

A Norwester is also a major threat to life and property. I remember conducting fieldwork in Bihar and Mednipur. People in those villages counted these thunderstorms as a major threat to their livelihood. Every year they have to rebuild their dwellings. Every year, they lose their valuables to a thunderstorm. Every year many people die during these storms, either due to electrocution or killed by trees that fall during such a storm.

ANOTHER SHOT OF A KALBOISHAKHI

Amongst villagers, Kalboishakhi is still a force of nature which instills fear. People worship the forces of nature to appease the Gods. They offer sacrifices in the form of animals, hoping to save themselves from the wrath of the angry God/Goddess. 

But, most of us have very fond memories of a Kalboishakhi. Getting wet in the rain, picking up mango and other fruits that have fallen off the trees, power cuts which prevented us from studying are some of the exciting memories associated with this calamity. A Kalboishakhi today, no matter where we are, still brings back those beautiful memories of our childhood.

Neel Shoshthi; Light a light

Chaitro is the time when the Shiv Bhakts get ready for another round of Shiv Puja, known as Neel Shoshti.

Its Neel Shoshthi today!

Performed by married women and mothers, this Pujo is an offering to Lord Shiva, for the long life and well-being of their husband and children. This day is supposed to celebrate the marriage of Shiva and Parvati, which very few of the devotees are aware of. 

Neel stands for the colour blue, as Shiva’s throat had turned blue due to the intake of poison, while Shoshthi is the sixth day in the lunar calendar. Shoshthi also denotes Ma Shosthi, the Goddess of fertility. She is supposed to be the protector of every child. Known to be an ill-tempered Goddess, she gets angry if she is not worshipped with proper care and devotion. 

For every child born into this world, there is a Pujo on the sixth day of the child’s life known as Shoshthi Pujo. In the earlier days, the infant mortality rate was very high and very few infants survived. Many women died while giving birth to a child. Hence the sixth day of the child’s life proved to be an important milestone. The mother had to wear new clothes and sit with the child in her lap. Then began, the veneration of the Goddess. Completion of a month, would be the next milestone for the newborn and another Pujo would be organized. 

Ma Shoshthi is still worshipped throughout West Bengal for the well-being of one’s children. In my family, I have always seen my grandmother and mother praying to her when we fell sick. Any illness, and they would run to the ‘shoshti tola’ (an erected platform under the shade of a banyan tree where the Goddess is worshipped by all) to offer their prayers.

This is how we light a lamp in Assam, diyas mounted on bamboo sticks

This brings to my mind the story of my mother’s aunt. She passed away at the age of thirteen, after a bout of typhoid. During her illness, the women would stay up the whole night praying and trying their best to please the Goddess. They believed that the Goddess was angry and she had to be pacified. The women would beat their chest and cry out to her for mercy. They would promise all kinds of offerings. This went on for a few days and she started improving. Weary, they fell asleep one night. The next morning, they woke up with the sun, to find the young lady cold and long gone.

Every household has such a tale of Ma Shosthi. Besides Ma Manasha, she is the most feared and also the most loved Goddess amongst the Bengalis. 

Coming back to Neel Shoshthi, this is the day when women fast throughout the day and then, as per the Tithi mentioned in the Ponjika, visit the temple nearby with their offerings. The Pujo is similar to the way we do Shivratri, except for the lights that we light that day.

It’s customary to a light a candle/diya for every person they are praying for. If a woman has three children, she will light a candle for each of them and a fourth for her husband. Earlier, women lit only for their male child, but things have changed and women today light a light for all their offspring. So, this is a ‘vrat’ meant to be observed by the married women and mothers only.

My grandmother had her own rituals for Neel Shoshthi. She said that we should light a light for all those we care for. A ‘baati’ (light) for all we love has always been the motto for us. So I light a light for all the people I care for. 

Here's wishing everyone a very happy Neel Shoshthi. Light a light for all you care and 'keep it burning till the end of day'!