River of the goddess

For most, Durga Pujo in West Bengal is synonymous with the bright lights of Kolkata; the cheerful crowds thronging every inch of the city; crisp, rustling new clothes; the para pujos, each pandal vying to outdo the others; loudspeakers blaring Hindi film music; the smell of incense and the loveliest sound of all – the dhak; and the ubiquitous food stalls that miraculously spring up overnight. But those who have had the privilege of experiencing Pujo outside Kolkata, in one of the many small villages that make up most of Bengal, would know just how different, how sacred and yet intimate Pujo can be.

My father hails from a small village – smaller and more isolated during my childhood – called Taki on the border of Bangladesh, divided from that country by the beautiful, restless Ichamati river. Taki, in South 24 Parganas, a mere two hours’ drive away from Kolkata, used to be flanked by four imposing Zamindar houses that circumscribed its boundaries – called Puber bari, Uttor bari, Dokkhhin bari and Pashchim bari, they were, as their names suggest, located on the east, west, north and south corners of the village. And it is in this village that our entire family would congregate for the five days of Durga Pujo, to be spent with grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins in a small place where everyone knew each other, and where to be a neighbour was almost the same as being part of the family.

The four Zamindar houses had lost much of their grandeur by the time I was born; in fact, they were little more than crumbling structures and empty, broken-down rooms, held together by nostalgia, old memories and the devotion of the few remaining survivors of the once-proud dynasties. Yet their tradition of holding Durga pujo within their portals continued – and for five days, those halls came alive with bright lights, loud, merry voices, and an air of festivity.

My grandfather, a doctor and a Gandhian, had lived in Taki all his life and never dreamed of leaving. Our house was situated opposite yet another Zamindar house, the Datta bari, not as important as the four I’ve mentioned, but imposing nonetheless. It was in the dalan (courtyard) of this house that one of the biggest pujos in Taki was held – and the one where we spent all day – and as much of the evening as our parents would allow. Oh, there were the loudspeakers blaring film music – but that was from the smaller pujo in the nearby field, the wannabe pujo that couldn’t compare to the solemnity of the rituals taking place in the Datta bari dalan.

A typical pujo morning would begin with us all trooping to the dalan by 10am, dressed in new clothes and feeling as excited as only children can; and then sitting in the beautiful dalan with its circular, red stone columns and painted floor, before the protima in her traditional daaker saaj, watching our mothers and aunts and the other women of Taki ready flowers, incense, plates of fruits for the morning rituals, a friendly stream of conversation punctuating every gesture, every chore. With one pujo to attend to, the priest was free to conduct as elaborate a ritual as he pleased – and once the morning anjali was over and prasad distributed – and devoured hungrily – it was time for us children to run wild. Though not too many people would know this, there was a time when animal sacrifices were very much a part of Durga Pujo; but the story goes that the Zamindar of Datta bari had outlawed the mohish boli (buffalo sacrifice) a couple of centuries ago, and replaced it with the symbolic kumro boli (sacrifice of a pumpkin). The sacrificial site, a deep indentation in the huge grounds facing the dalan, would have been prepared and kept ready for the ‘sacrifice’ (which took place on the fourth day, nabami) from the first day, Shasthi, itself.

Evenings, especially Ashtami evening, were devoted to hiring about 10 rickshaws – the only mode of transport within the village in those days – and going around every bit of the surrounding countryside, stopping at every pujo we saw, however small, with more time spent at the Zamindar baris, where we would be greeted affectionately with plates of sweets – and these rickshaw rides in the dark of an October evening are some of the moments that remain vivid in my mind. We travelled through long stretches of dark, quiet rural country – there were no sparkly lights here, no loudspeakers, no merry people in new clothes; all there were were endless stretches of fields, rutted roads with trees lining the sides, sometimes a little hut that could be glimpsed only by the flickering of a lantern inside, an occasional person trudging along, looking up in surprise at the procession of rickshaws and calling out to a familiar rickshaw-puller – ‘Kothai’? ‘Kon bari?’, their voices echoing in the uncanny silence long after the greetings had been exchanged. These were places that had existed since time itself (or so it seemed to us), where the myths and legends we had grown up on seemed to live and prosper; and as children, we were secretly relieved to come across a brightly lit Zamindar bari, run in to stand before the protima, clutching at the security of our mothers’ hands. What pujo in these areas also highlighted – although we were too young then to realise it – was the stark poverty of these places, a poverty that has till now not been alleviated.

By far the most exciting day – despite being the saddest – was Dashami, because of the treat in store for us – the Bisharjan (immersion). Idols from all the surrounding villages would be brought to Taki to be immersed in the Ichamati – they would begin arriving with great fanfare from 4pm onwards, with all of us hanging over the terrace walls to catch a glimpse of ‘their’ thakurs; and at 5pm, we would all make our way to the muddy banks of the river and pile on to two boats – one with the protima and a few older men, and the other containing as many of our family who had chosen to come. Sitting on one end of the boat, held firmly in my father’s arms, I remember watching the rippling silver waves, the many other boats, each keeping a safe distance from the others – and finally, that moment when the idol was tipped over with great cries of ‘Bolo Durga Ma-er joi!’ and huge splashes that drenched us all. The boats would have almost reached the farther shores by then – the Bangladesh border – before turning back, and they would be met with more boats, this time from Bangladesh, and cries of greeting from fisherfolk all too familiar with each other would fill the air. For that day, that moment, Bengal was whole again.

The boats would then turn back, the tears pricking our eyelids at having to say goodbye to Ma Durga wiped away at the thought of returning home, and telling the story to our grandmother while stuffing ourselves with the sweets she would have kept ready.

Dashami evening signified yet another ritual, this time one peculiar to our family – a mixture of puffed rice, sweet boondis, fruits and sweets would have been prepared by our mothers and aunts, and a few of us children would sit with that huge dekchi (a large metalware) on our verandah – waiting for the poverty-stricken neighbourhood people, of whom there were all too many, to make an appearance. Huge handfuls were given to each of them, us feeling very important all the while – it was supposed to help us realise how lucky and fortunate we were, and the importance of helping others not as fortunate as ourselves; I’m not sure how much we understood then, but some of that lesson has stuck since.

Since my grandparents’ death, we haven’t been back to Taki during Pujo; Taki isn’t the same either, having become more ‘developed’, while Datta bari has fallen in disarray, the dalan, which still hosts the pujo, almost gone, its roof fallen in, the floor eaten away; Dokkhhin bari has been claimed by the moody, hungry waters of the Ichamati, which every year inches that bit closer to the village.

Taki is now a tourist spot, and the Ichamati a famous river, the yearly bhashan now an event covered by television channels that congregate faithfully. What they can never capture, though, is the purity, the joy, the intimacy of the bhashans of my childhood. But what haven’t changed are the poverty, the deathly quiet of the evenings, broken by the sounds of occasional voices, the rhythmic squeak of rickshaw or ‘van’ wheels; and I’m happy to have my memories of Pujo in a little village, where those five days meant more than mere fun and festivity, where it was a time for forging relationships and strengthening family ties; and where cosy, intimate gatherings and people meant more than ostentation and gaudy, competitive displays.