Sharodiya Showtime.

My parents never lived in Calcutta. They did their schooling at Darjeeling & Shillong respectively, and by the time they came and settled in Calcutta, they had already given away their hearts to some other place they remembered as home. So, it isn’t a surprise that I didn’t grow up in an environment where the city with all its bangali-ana was celebrated. No, don’t get me wrong. I had the best childhood ever and remember every bit of it with utmost fondness. But I have always wondered how I developed such love for Calcutta.

Was it those tram rides with my grandmother at dusk? Was it the kaatla maach er lyaaj? Was it the smell of Calcutta winter as I played hopscotch on the terrace? Was it the daily rickshaw ride to nursery school? Was it the Biryani? Was it the yearly Zoo-Circus-Victoria Memorial visit? Was it the deem sheddho bhaat? Or was it the fact that I spent five long years away from her? These questions have crossed my mind more than once during the last ten days. 

The last ten days? Yes, they’ve been blurry, dreamy and surreal. While my city was busy being psychedelic, my heart was busy admiring the glamour she was oozing. If Calcutta was a queen, Durga Pujo would be her bejeweled crown, if Calcutta was a plate of Khichudi, Durga Pujo would undoubtedly be the dollop of ghee poured on it, if Calcutta was a live performance, Durga Pujo would be the standing ovation moment. This has been, umm, let’s see, the most extraordinary Durga Pujo ever and there are a myriad of reasons why it turned out to be so:

 

·    Pandal hopping was something I never did since childhood, so even today, the number of thakurs I have seen is not what matters (I am not judging people who enjoy it). What matters to me, is that fervent vibe She gives out and that is something you don’t need to see a hundred times to feel. Yet this year, I was out during the odd hours, saying “oi dekh aar ekta thakur!” and counting off a mark on my finger with a giggle. Sometimes we end up loving something only because our love loves it.

·    While Maa Durga rode proudly on her lion, Uber and Ola became our bahons. From enjoying “Gum hai kisi ke pyaar me” from his collection as the cab inched along in the jostling crowd, to asking “Aapni ki pujor prottek din duty korben?”, from listening to the number of frocks he bought for his daughter, to wishing them Shubho Bijoya with tired smiles, these ever happy ever helpful drivers became my best pujo friends this year.

·    I could manage my sarees very well this year. Thank you very much. 

·    We had our “Andhere raaste par chale jaa rahe hai, Ratlam ki galiyon me” moment on our midnight rickshaw ride. Thank God, we didn’t run into a Hotel Decent. Oh wait, we did, in the form of an obscenely shaped balloon.:P

·    Chinese food, please dawsh haath dure thaako! Right from Chaturthi lunch to Dashami dinner, you have been an incessant stalker.  

·    It’s funny, but this is probably the first time ever that I did the Dhunuchi dance. Or rather, just managed to hold the Dhunuchi and swayed awkwardly. Oh well, then I moved into my tried and tested zones of Mithun da/Govinda dance, and someone else took to the floor with a “Dola re..” and successfully cleared the space with his long legs.

·    Drunken men were an integral part of this pujo. Right from buying ice cream from a guy with bloodshot eyes, who looked at me as if I had asked him for his intestines, when I requested him for a butterscotch cup to the doped half naked man who did the bhashan of the barir pujo and subsequently splashed (read: soaked) us with water and cackled madly.

·   What I admired most were the breathtaking pandals and idols that we discovered tucked away in obscure corners of the city. While one had a mandap that was made from ethereal and misty Buddhist prayer cloth, the other had an idol made from jute and glass.  Also worth mentioning were the idols having a pure gold polish and the one where the mother and her four children were designed in a dancing posture.  

·    Best Comic Moment: An almost 6 feet man trying to wear a dhuti and being helped by two less than 5 feet women (No, I was not one of them!). I was the one laughing and earning a stomach ache, oh and also the glares of the struggling man.

·    Talking of all the lovely pandals, how can I forget mentioning the time we spent in our little house under the tank on the terrace? Right from having the first cup of tea, to staring at the perfect puffy white clouds on the blue canvas, from catching the strains of the dhaak to humming favourite songs. It absolutely made us feel like children, because we couldn’t get inside the house until we crawled on all fours. On second thoughts, when do we not feel like children? :P

·   On someone’s recommendation, we went to a shop to try it’s famous lemon tea and despite me being a ‘tea’totaler, I was absolutely star struck by it. It is undoubtedly the bestestestestest lemon tea ever made on the face of this planet!

·   Last year, during Dashami, as She was about to leave, I had asked her for something, and She whole heartedly granted my wish, so this year was all about saying thanks and a million thanks to Her. There is something else as well. On Ekadoshi this year, we were doing the last round of thakur dekha and that was when an insect went into my eye and I ended up looking like those short swollen eyed henchmen for the next four days. I am terribly thankful to Her for literally saving my face in the pujo pictures.

·    8 out of the 10 times we were about to take a selfie, my crazy half sang “Chal beta selfie le le re!”.  Yes, you are free to judge us. But trust me, if you saw our shaky, giggly, hazy pictures, you’d be horribly jealous!

·   Another first was following the bhashan procession on the street. What made it an out of the world experience was the huge Japanese war like drums which made reverberations that travelled long distances. The cherry on the cake was the four feet something lanky rock star who was playing them sporting an Afro hairdo and some retro shades (at 8 in the night). No prizes for guessing who fell in love with that cool dude and copied his zealous drum playing moves in the middle of the road.

·    Revlon kajal is the best ever. Even after the joggyo, and the cumulonimbus smoke it emitted, it stayed put in its place and saved me from looking like Kangana Ranaut in her initial drug addict roles. 

·    So, on Dashami evening, he was cribbing that it was all coming to an end. I tried to comfort him reminding him of the “Aasche bochor abar hobe” line. Then he said, “But the first pujo won’t ever happen again”. And, it dawned on me. So we decided to make it special. Result: Dinner under the stars. 

Coming back to the question, that has been bothering me, I begin to wonder. My love for writing and creating is something I owe to my father. The optimism and eccentricity are a gift from the mother. The little compassion I have is something I learnt from my grandmother. The thirst for knowledge has been passed on to me by my uncle. So who is responsible for the crazy commitment I feel for Calcutta? 

The feeling that I cannot bear to hear a bad word about her, the confidence that I will never voluntarily leave her and go, the childlike excitement when I hear “Welcome to Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose International Airport”, that automatic attachment I have for people who are equally hopelessly in love with this city, that bout of pride when someone praises the pocket friendly food and transportation we get here. There can be no logical explanation for what I feel, except maybe the fact that this was something I was born to do.

I have never been a true blue Bengali. I have only read Bengali stories that have been translated to English, not seen most of the Bengali classics, know very few Rabindra Sangeets, can’t speak bhalo shuddho bangla, and undoubtedly, receive a lot of flak for being a so called tyaash. A lot of people feel and some have even told me, that owing to all my above mentioned shortcomings, I have a much lesser right to love Calcutta compared to someone who is more culturally aware about the city. To them I would like to say, congratulations on the awareness, now if you’d please excuse me, I’d rather make love to my gorgeous city. 

We've all had that moment in life when we’re on a fourth drink and getting happy high, and a blasted friend decides to bawl and throw up and the high just goes poof! Well, the first day of office is that blasted friend and out it throws the intoxication of Durga Pujo. As my fingers type out a damned service contract, my heart replays the memories of the last few days, and successfully distracts me in every sentence. Right from sleepy eyed early morning anjali to sleepy eyed late night adda, from triple helpings of kur-kure aloo bhaja to triple pegs of Old Monk. As I slap myself out of the daze, there stood typed a permutation clause in place of a termination clause in my contract.

Pardon my ranting, as I’m once again in the clutches of PDPD (Post Durga Pujo Depression). I keep looking down at my left feet sadly, to see the fading remains of my pujo phoshka. The 500 something pictures in my phone gallery is making me grin and pout at the same time. Office er jama have taken the forefront, while pujo’r jama are washed, ironed and hibernating at the back of the cupboard. Ironically, it’s the silence that hurts my ears more than the sound of the dhaak I had been waking up to. The absence of pujo has left me bittersweet. But you know what the silver lining is to the unhappy black cloud that looms above my head? The fact that it’s going to be November in two days and it promises tons of reasons to make merry and celebrate. 

Hope you all had a fabulous festive time!

Pujo Pujo Gondho.