Sayanti requested me, “Uncle, why don’t you join us?” Sayanti is the daughter of my friend Shyamal. She was a student of tenth grade and her mother had complained me that she had been obsessed with her exams and overstretching herself with study and home-work. I expected Sayanti to be a bookish and sheepish kid. Instead I found her very jolly and lively. So when I turned down her invitation, stating that I had to return home early, she had a queer expression on her eyes, a mix of surprise and disappointment. I went there to meet my old school mates. Shyamal was one of them. Two of my other friends, Swarnendu and Aloke, were also core organizers of the event. They were busy with the preparation of Bhashaan (immersion) of Goddess Kali. Like many other clubs in my home town, my friends’ club also organizes Durga and Kali Pujas (Two popular Hindu autumn festivals in Bengal held three weeks apart) every year. In that evening, they and other members of the club with their family and relations assembled there to take part in the procession, which would carry the idol to the river, and immerse her into its depth. After many years, I was in my home-town during Kali Puja and could meet my friends on such an occasion. I had a pretty good idea about this kind of procession. The idol would be placed on a matador (a type of motor-van). A generator would be carried on separately on a rickshaw-van to provide power to high-beam incandescent-lamps, which would illuminate the idol and also a section of the procession, where all kinds of people, drunk or sober would dance at the beats of the marching drummers (called Dhulis in Bengali). There would be high volume of music, usually the most recent popular Hindi song with catchy tune and beats. In my younger days, I took part in such processions, mostly by managing the crowd, for a while by dancing with my friends. Usually these were gala events during the immersion of Goddess Durga. In those evenings, the main road of our town, which runs across it like its spine, would be completely blocked for any other traffic. Only the processions from different clubs for the purpose of Bhashaan were allowed to move on the road. Along the sidewalks, for a stretch of about two kilometers, there would be gathering of spectators in thousands. Sometimes a casual onlooker from the crowd would step down from the platform of the footpath and exchange greetings with their friends in a procession, by dancing and embracing. However, the whole affair was an all male affair, where females were the passive spectators of the celebration. The road, on which the processions moved, shares a part of it with the bank of the river Ganges. All such processions were used to cover that stretch. Their final destination was always the place, where the river turns away from the road. Usually the immersion would take place there, as it was easier to push the idol into the water from that spot. Nevertheless the job required strong muscle power. It used to involve eight to ten persons to lift the idol on their shoulder. Then they would have to make a few rounds carrying the load, and at the same time, maintaining their balance on slanted concrete base of the river-bank (for protection of soil erosion). Finally, the ritual was completed by lowering the idol gently into the river.
Compared to Durga Puja, the Bhashaan of Kali Puja was used to be a low-key event. But the procession itself had the similar characteristics. In this case, it was unusual to have the sidewalks crowded with enthusiastic onlookers. If there was any, most likely the person was out in the street for a different reason. The road was also free for ongoing vehicle. So a major task of the organizers was to guide the procession without obstructing the moving vehicles. However, the whole event would run till midnight. That was the reason for my unwillingness to be part of the party. But, after looking at Sayanti’s disappointment, I felt the guilt of a deserting soldier from the battle zone. So I decided to join them.
Our town was a small place. In our boyhood, we used to know almost every school going boys of our ages and meet regularly to play at different play grounds. We grew in this town with our clubs. There we played games like soccer, cricket or volley-ball almost daily, hold dramas and musical evenings on the occasion of Rabindranath’s or Najrul’s birthday, celebrated Durga and Kali Pujas, hoisted flags in the morning of independence day, observed Netaji’s birthday, organized sports for young and old, and were involved in many such activities round the year. Even when we were kids of seven or eight without any serious association of a club, together with a few of my friends we formed our own fictitious sect with a set of rules and observance to our playful events. My association with Aloke was from such early days. As we grew older, Aloke started taking lead role in organizing various club activities. In fact, with his shrewd leadership, the club in our village could acquire a playground of its own and got registered eventually. This was the time when we started our college education. However, due to conflict of several interests, very soon, he found himself isolated in that club. So he withdrew himself from it and joined the present one.
It took a few hours to prepare for the final march with the Goddess. The idol was brought out from the pandal (the temporary place of worship during the celebration) and placed on a platform facing it. Then it was the turn for the married women to perform the baran of the Goddess. The ritual was meant for bidding farewell to her, though for some reasons, the event is called baran, which literally means ‘to welcome’. There was a makeshift staircase, riding which the ladies could reach the Goddess. They greeted her by offering sweets on her lips and tongue. They also pasted the red vermilion (called ‘sindur’ in Bengali) on her forehead. One of the ladies took quite some time to perform this ritual. Like a priest, she slowly waved her folded hands in a circle in front of the idol. She repeatedly carried on same action holding different items and then greeting the Goddess with them. Finally, when all the ladies were done with the event, they played with each other by throwing and pasting vermilion against their faces. Then they started making fun with the men, who were present there, by putting vermilion on their foreheads and cheeks. We also could not escape the attack. I was having a chat with Swarnendu and Aloke and was watching the proceedings. First Shyamal’s wife came and put a decent red tilak (a short vertical line segment centrally placed on the forehead) on us. Then the lady priest caught us. My cheeks became red with her blessings. Swarnendu was the most pathetic. His dresses also got anointed with the blood-red powder. The kids were also not left out from the fun. Aloke’s daughter came to him complaining about his cousin brother, who was chasing her with the powder. Aloke told, “What is your plan?” She showed him her two bloody palms, and said, “Now it is my turn.”
When the Goddess was about to be moved up the matador, I noticed that someone was covering the pandal by drawing a curtain, while a lamp was burning inside. On my query, Aloke replied, “No one would have the courage to enter that empty space tonight. This is a ritual from tantra (a set of practices and rituals for worshippers of Goddess Kali). We are following this custom for long.”
I asked, “Is it not dangerous to keep the lamp burning within that premise out of everyone’s sight?”
He said with conviction, “Nothing would happen. Nothing had happened. This is what faith is. You see that boy, Uttam. He donated the thakur (the idol) this year. It means that within a year he is expected to get a job. That happened for each of us, for last forty years. So we have the tradition of getting the idol every year from one of the unemployed youths of our club. It is to be considered a great honor for the boy. He looks forward for this opportunity in his life time.”
Aloke was an avid reader of Bengali literature and essays. He was also a good student in his school days. After the higher-secondary examination, he got admission into a medical college of Kolkata. But, he became so actively involved in the politics of student union, that he could not continue his study and left the college after two years. Then he did his graduation in a general stream. Whenever I used to come to this town, I was a regular visitor to his house. His room was in the roof top, from where we could have lovely views of the river. He fitted a hammock in his room, and I used to enjoy its swing, occasionally used to have a puff on a deshi tobacco strip (called Biri in Bengali), and watch the slow moving ships across the horizon. The river in our town is so wide that its other side offers only a view of dotted horizon. In our sessions, we were absorbed in all kinds of discussion with our youthful dream and interpretation of our own world. In late eighties, Aloke joined the government service after clearing the PSC (Public Service Commission) examination. Around late-nineties, I came to know that for some personal reason, he had left the town with his family and built a house on his own near Kolkata. Since then hardly we met. In fact, we might be meeting after a gap of fifteen years. His father died two years ago. So he took additional responsibility for looking after the family property. His father was a rich man. But he was a very simple hearted person. He started from a very poor condition and through his diligence made a considerable property in our town. He had a business on making iron grills and gates for buildings. However, in later years, he gave up his business to his workers and engaged himself in farming, which involved a wholesome activity of cultivation, fishery, dairy, poultry, etc. Presently Aloke is taking care of his father’s farm and visiting the town more often in the week ends and holidays.
I noticed that Shyamal was standing in front of the deity by riding on the high platform. He was keenly observing the idol and sometimes he was touching her, as if to pick something from her body. I asked Aloke what he was doing.
“He is removing the gold ornaments from the Goddess.”
“Real gold! Do you put them on the idol every year?” I was surprised.
“Oh! There are quite a few of them! Those, who got jobs after donating the thakur, gave these ornaments to her.” Swarnendu replied.
I thought, having ornaments for a deity could only be a custom for temples, or private house-holds. So I wanted to know how they manage to keep them in a safe custody.
Aloke explained, “During Kali Puja, donors themselves give those ornaments to the organizers, and the Goddess is decorated with them. After the puja, they are returned to the donors.”
“In fact, there were more in the past. Now we have only a few.” Swarnendu added.
“What happened to them? Were they stolen?” I asked.
“A sort of. Some of our members put charges against us for stealing ornaments of Goddess.” Aloke smiled mischievously.
“How come?” I wondered.
“Oh! It was dirty politics.” Swarnendu commented with a dejected voice.
Then Aloke narrated the incident. I am providing a summary of it in his own words.
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“It was the time when the CPM (then the ruling left party of the state) was trying to take control of local clubs. One day, a very powerful leader of the state committee of the party came to us and suggested to convert our small club house into a three storied grand palace. The ground floor would remain to us. The middle part would be a conference room and the top floor would function as their party office. With folded hands, I said to him, “Dada (Sir)! We are habituated in taking simple food on banana leaves. But, we enjoy our meals. We do not want to eat Rajbhog (a typical Bengali sweet, or etymologically ‘a feast offered by the King’) from golden plates by sacrificing our freedom.”
The leader went with a grudge and then some of our club members including the then vice chairman of the municipality, who were also party cadres, started pushing the agenda. Many of them were the office bearers and went on creating pressure using local administration. A few of us were getting odd calls from the officer-in-charge (OC) of our police station. Even the Sub-divisional Police Officer (SDPO) got interested in this affair and tried to coerce us in agreeing their proposal. But we did not relent. Then some of them indirectly threatened me for my life. I simply caught hold of a few and flatly told them to go ahead with their plan, if they were bold enough to become so mean and low. Finally, when they found that majority of us would not relent at all, they threatened with law-suits. You know, I also did left politics in my early days. I had a fairly good idea, what kind of manipulation these people could do. I knew where the notebook of minutes of the meetings was kept. I removed it immediately from that place and kept it with me so that no one could change those minutes. Finally, we had a lengthy meeting with them in presence of their lawyers. All of them tried to convince us about the rights of the executives, which were written in the club constitution. They placed all sorts of arguments, and had almost convinced most of us. Then I played my card. I told them, “If there are rules in the club-constitution, there are also rules for amendments. How are you sure that the executives are given rights to take such a decision which most of us do not subscribe? Show me the minutes of the general body (GB) where the construction and all those proposals were approved?” They started looking at each other. I produced the minutes from my pocket and showed them that it was clearly resolved by the GB that no such action would be permitted and if they require changing this decision, they need to call again a GBM. So they lost. Even those experienced lawyers could not utter a single word after that. This was the time, when they became nastier. They charged a few of us for stealing the ornaments of Goddess Kali, which they themselves have in their custody. That is the custom here. Every donor brings them out during Mother’s (referring to Goddess) puja and again keeps with them after the ceremony. But we were heavily harassed by the police and threatened to be put behind the bar. Even they were not allowing us to hold the Durga Puja that year. So we met the SDPO and requested his intervention. He asked us, “Why are you so interested to run this club?”
I told, “What is your opinion on this matter, Sir? Do you think, we run a business here? Do you consider, we earn money for our living from this club? Swarnendu is a Homeopath doctor, respected in the town. Shyamal is a sub-assistant engineer working in PWD. I myself work in a Government office. Many of our members are like us. We are quite busy with our profession. So why do we still meet here, spend our evening, organize pujas, cultural eves, play cards and table tennis? Why? Is it very difficult for you to understand? It is a part of our life. We enjoy it. I would rather ask what interests the CPM party has in running their office in the premise of our club. Is it also very difficult to comprehend that they would like to dictate us all in their party’s interest?”
The SDPO finally gave us the clearance for holding the Puja. When we went to the police station and asked the OC for the permission, he cut a caustic remark on us, “You went for grasses ignoring the horse! We would see how you manage the affair.”
We said, “Your boss has permitted. So act accordingly. We do know how to manage.”
From that year, a few of our members, in allegiance to their party, left the club. I am sure by bringing false charges against us, they are now repenting. They still have those ornaments, but cannot do anything with them. They cannot sell or display them. Again, they cannot bring them out during pujas. It must be very tormenting for all those poor fellows.”
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Finally the procession started, and I mentioned in the beginning how I joined it in spite of my initial hesitation. Swarnendu informed me that in recent years they were not permitted to immerse the idol in the Ganges. But the administration made a good arrangement for immersion in the canal of our town, which connects the main river. The place is quite near to their club. The procession would require covering a distance of a kilometer or less to reach that spot. This might be the reason why it was advancing so slowly. No one wanted to finish the celebration so quickly. So at places, it halted on demand from the dancers, who wanted to perform their road show for a while. Sometimes due to the ongoing firework in the front, it slowed down further. Aloke, a bit high and spirited, was at its front. Swarnendu, the gentle and the sober, was in the middle. He was pushing and guiding semi-drunk dancers to bring them into order. Shyamal was at the rear holding the cable of the small generator, which connected the matador carrying the idol, and the rickshaw-van fitted with a sound system and the generator itself. He was cautious about not letting the cable go under the wheel of the slow moving vehicle. A few senior members of the club were also controlling the gathering. There were ladies, wives and family members of my friends and other club members, their sons and daughters including kids starting from age four to fourteen. A few young girls among them were dancing with the beats. The kids were walking with rang-mashals (fire-sticks producing flames of various colors) on their hands. They were regularly supplied with those burning sticks by their elders. All of them were marching with great excitement. I found their parents, present there, were not too bothered about their safety, while giving those burning sticks on their hands. One of the club members made a good number of tubris (a type of sparklers) on this occasion and roughly at a distance of every ten meters, a tubri was put to fire producing an instant shower of flowering flames.
When we moved a few steps away from the club premise, Aloke called me and showed me a group of persons sitting on benches in a stall just beside the sidewalk. He told me, “Those were our past members, who left after that incident.” The group consisted of persons from mid thirties to mid sixties. Aloke went to them and exchanged greetings with a few of them and then came back to me. He lamented, “It’s a loss for both of us. All those seniors should have been here and guide us. Otherwise, how our young ones will understand how we had been groomed? From where, they would learn to respect seniors, if they do not find examples from us? It’s also a loss to all those people. They have now become mute spectators. I requested them many a times. Please come back again and join us. Forget the past. But, they are very much ashamed to enter the club. The party-politics in our clubs has destroyed our culture. Our town was always neutral on this aspect. But it is not so now. The CPM started it, and now the TMC (the present ruling party) might follow soon. Who knows?” I also have the similar apprehension. It is rare to find a club now, which does not have a political color. Aloke continued, “The club in our village also has the same problem. It has become now a den of anti-socials. In the initial years, I tried to convince some of the elders not to bring those outsiders. But they were following the party-line. A few years back, one of their houses got robbed. I told the victim, these were those very persons, whom they welcomed earlier. Now he wanted to move from the neighborhood. It’s a sorry situation!”
However, his sadness did not prevail long. Soon he engaged himself in the proceedings. Sometimes he was dancing with the beating drums, sometimes was managing the crowd, and having occasional chats with his friends. It went on for an hour and a half. Then we came to a junction, where another road met from a side. The bridge of the canal was also a few steps away. The immersion would take place after crossing the bridge at the other side of the canal. At that junction, Aloke made a signal to halt and asked to stop the sound system. He told the senior-most dhuli of the band, “Kaka (Uncle)! What is happening? How are you playing your dholes (indigenous beating instruments)? This is not the first time your group is performing in our procession. But why are we not getting the fun, as we used to have?” Others also supported him on this aspect. He continued, “I am an experienced listener. So far, you have only used three boles (rhythms). You should have played at least six boles.”
The senior dhuli agreed, “Babu (Sir)! What can I say? These are my drummers. They are inexperienced. Never used to do that much of practice. All of us work as laborers. Only during these Pujas, we come with our instruments and play for you. From where would they learn?”
But Aloke did not agree. He addressed the young dhulis there, “Look brothers! I understand you are not experienced. But that is because you do not give time. You do not care to learn. I am also a kaora (slang for the word ‘kahar’, the Bengali caste whose trade is to play drums). I know how these dholes are played. In fact there could be thirty-four boles. Kaka! Am I right?” He looked for confirmation from the senior person. The poor chap was nodding his head with apprehension.
“So, you need to learn and show us your skill. Otherwise, no extra bakhshish (tips) for you!” Aloke added and all the dancers around him cheered at his words with their consent. He further continued, “Follow this man.” He pointed to the senior dhuli. “He is the most experienced. As he plays, you simply follow his rhythm.”
One of the young dhulis then replied, “Dada (Sir)! We will be trying our best. Give us a chance.”
Again the beating started. The dhulis were doing their best with variation of different boles, shaking their heads and exchanging expressions among themselves for better orchestration. The crowd got settled with their rhythm. The kids and young girls too joined the group. My friend started dancing swinging his waist and twisting his legs by raising the right hand with a finger pointed above, while the left hand was glued against his hip. A small kid of five or six year’s old, was giving him the company by trying to mimic his moves. Then, with the change of the rhythm, he kept on making nice synchronized moves by stepping forward and backward. In this process, he became totally engrossed in his feats. He continued dancing without bothering his surroundings. Sometimes he was looking downward, sometimes upward. Sometimes he was shaking his body to the left and sometimes to the right. His moves looked simple, but lively. With the increasing loudness and rapidity of the beats, some of the dancers became more and more hysteric and frenzy with their random jumps, cheers and whistles. My friend went on among them with rhythms and spontaneity with his natural grace, absorbed in the proceedings without worries and woes. Next morning he would be busy with his daily routine and other domestic affairs. But that moment, he was in complete ecstasy with a smile of happiness on his lips. Swarnendu told me, “The party has just begun. Still a full night is left before us. A long way to go.”
(In the above, names are fictitious, but characters are not.)
5/11/2011
