Durga Puja celebration and sexist!

Proud to be a Bengali, I always thought the sexual divide in this part of the country is rather thin. Here, the man does help in the kitchen and need not be fed before his wife or daughters!

I have grown up watching my dad make tea for the family. And when mum wasn’t home, visiting her parents, we would have a gala time. Me, my elder sister and my father. He would cook for us and not allow us inside the kitchen! Those half cooked potatoes and bland meat however would win hands down even today.

Well, I shouldn’t be digressing from what I started with. I was talking about my preconceived notion about the equality of gender in good old Calcutta, now called Kolkata. Durga Puja, where the devi shakti is worshipped, is probably one of those cultural events (I shall refrain from calling it a religious festival, because anyone who has been in Kolkata during Puja knows what a huge social affair it is, something more than just a religious ritual) which is all about equality. Here, I am not just talking about gender equality, but also of religion, class and caste.

So, naturally, I was taken aback, when while interviewing a bunch of renowned foreign photographers, I was told that the gender bias during Puja had not escaped them! Now, this team was in the city for a couple of weeks to capture the life and spirit of the festive season.

“It was interesting to see that men and women came in different trucks during the immersion process,” said one. (Let me name the particular photographer P.) What? Thought I. But how is that possible? I tried thinking of my many experiences to prove P wrong. But I had absolutely no memory of any immersion process. Gosh…so I never did accompany my para puja procession till the very end. And why so? “Coz good girls don’t stay out amongst drunk men this late,” I recalled someone telling me ages ago.

So, good girls don’t accompany the procession. But then what about those who do? They simply board a different truck. Even if they must accompany Maa Durga till the end of her journey, they must not share the same breathing space with that of loud, boisterous and drunk men.

Not very liberal, as I would have loved to believe.

You. and Me.

One got the youth. The other got the kind loving soul.

One got the peck on the cheek. The other felt the caring hand on the forehead.

One waited for him to return home from office everyday. The other waited for him to come home in six months.

One wouldn’t let him go to work. The other sat up quietly the nights before he left for work.

One got bike rides, as the cool breeze, passion and spirit mingled together. The other rode the favourite Maruti 800, safe with the seat belt on.

One was asked to dress up and just look pretty. The other had to follow him around, sweaty and unkempt, granting his every wish.

One was asked to sleep peacefully at home, protected. The other was expected to stay up with him each night.

The one was you. And the other was me.

sealed!

I could never make a display of what goes on in my head. Never could make a display of my emotions. I never really found a reason to. What happens inside…was best kept inside. I still believe so. But I’ve been told…I end up building a wall around me. Does it help me protect from the hurt and pain? Often it does. More often I merely internalise them. Does that make the suffering go away? Or does it even make it pain any less? It doesn’t.

But I’d still prefer keeping them for me. My thoughts are all my own. And I am not the one to open my soul for everyone to see. Too personal, these feelings are to me.

But I do envy those who can show their wounds in the open. While others peer for a closer look, it makes them heal faster. Would it do the same to me? Even the thought makes me cringe. The blood and gash are maybe too dear for me to make a show of.

I’d rather internalise them. Try and heal them. Or maybe live with them. But I’d keep them safe within me.

fading away...

Sometimes I wonder how I'd like to go down...Make a lot of noise? Or just sink without a sound?

As a child it was all unimaginable. Scary to say the least. I felt if ever I had to leave...I would make sure to make it felt. Now, how does one make her absence felt? When you are not there, how can you be felt? Way back then, it seemed simple. I thought I would be able to see what others did in my absence. And even hear what they said.

I imagined them cry and say..."ohh what a lovely girl she was...always with a smile...no stubborn streaks...always ready to please...".

Funny. Really. Now all I would want is to just fade away. Like the soft drizzle that stops after a heavy shower. Or how the bright hues of the rainbow slowly scatter away. Once there...moments later...gone. And once gone...it's impossible to imagine how it was there even a moment ago.

Yes, if you capture a photograph. Or create a painting. Or write it down to remember all the little details. One fine evening you might even reminisce about it.

Maybe how I want to be remembered...is through memories. Through a song I'd sung. Through a smile I'd shared. Maybe through the love I gave...

Through the pebbled path...

These are days I miss him a lot. That kind smile. The giving look in his eyes. His spotless white dhuti-kurta. He smelt strange. A smell I loved. He smelled of an old world that came alive before me only through his stories. He smelled of India’s Independence struggle, of the old land in Borishal (now in Bangladesh), of the numerous hardships he faced with Dida. But mostly, he smelled of my mother’s childhood. Stories of my mother as a naughty kid amused me. And I begged him for more.

Every day spent with Dadu was special. With special treats and silly games. Of the British Raj stories. Of the love of Rabindranath Tagore and work under Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose. My Dadu was a freedom fighter. He fought against the British. I was so proud. His tales of secret meetings and life in the jail gripped my senses.

Dadu’s story of escapade to Santiniketan from Borishal on foot captivated me. And each time he was forced to relate the story again, it had the same effect on me. The part when he finally met Tagore (whom he worshipped; not just because of the bard’s magnificent writings, but his ability to motivate hundreds to the freedom movement through his songs) was the part I loved best. Tagore, pleasantly surprised to see a young lad of 13 leave home and travel all the way from Borishal to Santiniketan only to meet him, had asked (here I quote my Dadu): “Tumi eto dure ele. Eshe ki dekhle? (you came this far. What did you find?) Dadu had said, (and it always sent shivers down my spine, still does) “Ami dekhlam Bangla’r Balmiki. (I met Bengal’s Valmiki)”.

As I said before, every moment spent with him was special. But some were exceptionally special for me. One such day came every January. Pleasant and sunny. He was a special invitee to Raj Bhavan in Kolkata. On Republic Day (January 26) and Independence Day (August 15), my Dadu and other freedom fighters like him (those who were still alive) were invited over for a special lunch and meeting with the Governor and the Chief Minister. I was always my Dadu’s special guest.

Dressed in my best, I held his hand and entered the gate. The pebbled path fascinated me. The huge structure in front filled me with wonder. As people greeted Dadu, they either smiled at me or bent down to say hello. I wasn’t flustered. I felt at the top of the world.

Then it was Dadu’s turn to meet other freedom fighters. Old memories were exchanged. The sorry state of affairs discussed. I listened to each word spoken. Looked at each face that walked past. I etched a picture of the sunny winter day, the trees around, the wide lawn, and the white building behind it all, in my mind’s eye. There was no camera. But the picture of my Dadu smiling as he spoke to them, as his eyes glistened in the sun, will always be alive.

These are days when I miss him more. I miss being his special guest. I miss oiling his hair on winter mornings. I miss sleeping under the sky on the terrace at night. I miss his philosophies on life. 

A man who believed in spirituality, had no regard for religion. A person who gave up his all for his motherland. A man who introduced Rabindrasangeet in my life. “Tomar khola hawa lagiye paley…” (I am ready to dive deep, while feeling the wind in my soul, which is like the sail of a boat)... I can still hear his unrestrained smooth voice sing to me.

Of smoke and whiskey!

There is no ash on the ashtray. The bathroom doesn't stink of the smoke anymore. The bins lie bereft of the cigarette butts. The minibar lies empty. He has given up. 

He was my initiator. That first drag. The first sip of sinful pleasure.

I sat with the balding doll at his feet. The room full of laughter, noise, smell of food and smoke. This wasn't new for me. Tired with my mindless game I looked up at him. A cigarette dangled from his lips, he lit a matchstick and brought it close to his mouth. Watching me from the corner of his eyes, I saw him smile back at me. Satisfied to have caught his attention, I went back to my doll. He held the cigarette with one hand and took a sip of that strange-smelling liquid. The light caught the glass and it sparkled like a little pot of gold!

I had to do something. So i plotted and planned! I waited for her to leave the room. The moment I saw her make a momentary exit...I climbed on to the sofa. Sat close to him and whispered: "Eta ki? (What is this?). "Rong meshano jol" (coloured water)! "Amio khabo" (I want to taste too).

I didn't shock him. I somehow had the faith I wouldn't. "Or chotto glass ta dao toh" (Get me her glass please). She wasn't pleased at all. But well...she gave in! 

He took the glass and filled it with water...till the very brim. Then he leaned over and got hold of the bottle. A fat bottom, with a thin neck - it didn't look too pretty to me then. But this was 20 years ago!

As he poured the golden liquid in his glass, he winked at me. We shared that wink, reassuring and of a secret bond! Then he dipped his finger into his glass...once, twice, thrice. And my tiny glass had three drops of that golden liquid! plop plop plop...three small drops fell on the water. As he handed me my glass, I watched the dark orangish liquid twirl its way down, slowly blending with the colourless water.

I sniffed. I drank. It certainly smelled and tasted different. (I wonder now how three drops could ever make a change to a glassful of water!) 

"Tumi ek glass whiskey kheyecho" (You drank a glass of whiskey), he said. Oh wasn't I happy! Though it took me more than a decade to know how it actually tasted! And it look me longer to have my first share of more than three drops of golden liquid!

And oh...yes! The story of that first drag shall soon be shared! Till then CHEERS :)