Poison in the Winter Winds

I shall not feel the winter chills

Stare I must at the box of evils

Frustration, pain, despair, and education

But the box of evils has my attention

Trapped and almost out of my mind

Break free I can’t, there’s poison in the winter wind

An open letter to Durga Pujo Committess in Noida

 

Dear Pujo Committees of Noida,

Heartfelt thanks for organizing Durga Puja celebrations amidst the chaos and pain which have defined our lives in the last two years. We have lost much. Death and disease have ravaged our lives and many of us battling depression, unemployment or post-COVID symptoms. In these tough times, only Durga Pujo can bring some joy to our lives. There is a popular saying, if four Bengalis are together, a Durga Pujo is in the offing. Durga Pujo has played an important social, cultural, and political role in the lives of Bengalis. Unlike other parts of the country where Navratra is celebrated with fervor, our Pujo is more about community, art and culture, and off course fashion, food, and merriment with worship occupying only a small part of the whole celebrations.  

For Bengalis living outside Bengal, Durga Pujo is an opportunity to retain the connect with their homeland and introduce Bengali culture and way of life to their children who otherwise would have little or no exposure to Bengal. As a child, I yearned for Pujo throughout the year. I participated in sports, art, recitation, music competitions and off course Tagore’s dance dramas. Interestingly, this time of the year was also when my Bangla pronunciation was corrected and I got exposed to Bangla literature and music. All this was off course unthinkable for most of non-Bengali friends who were just amused with the fact that Puja was time for celebrations and not a time for strict religious rituals.

I had no patience with my friends who often said “Chhi chhi. Tum log Navratra pe meat khate ho. Such an insult to the Goddess”. To us, Maa Durga is mother and daughter. Can one ever insult one’s mother or one’s daughter? Aren’t these relationships above such petty things? While others concerned themselves about how and what to eat to please their Gods, I learnt Kazi Nazrul’s Agomoni songs alongside Sukanto Bhattacharya’s poems for the quintessential evening programmes. As an adult, I naturally don’t have patience or respect for those surprised to know Muslims organize Durga Puja in Calcutta. Not just Muslims, even communist atheists have always been welcome in Pujo pandals.

While I take immense pride in the secular, democratic, progressive traditions of Durga pujo, my heart pains to see that pandemic preparedness has translated into exclusive pujo pandals and completely destroyed the ‘Sarbojonin’ character of Durga Pujo which became popular from the early 20^th century onwards as part of the nationalist project. The working class today is scared of visiting pujo pandals out of very real fears of being driven away and the ‘insult’ associated with that. ‘Bhog’, an essential feature of Durga Puja festivities, has become a privileged commodity, given only to those who have the requisite purchasing power. My head hung in shame when I was carrying four ‘bhog’ parcels and an old gentleman asked if this was for everyone or for the select few. This is not my Pujo. Maa Durga is also known as ‘Annapurna’ who feeds her children. Let’s not do this to ourselves. Let’s not do this to the ‘mother’ and the ‘daughter’ whom we love so much. Do we want to come across as privileged brats who organize private festivities for elites during Durga Pujo for sheer entertainment? This grossly against the ethos of Durga Pujo.

The need to follow COVID norms is a sham argument because ‘bhandaras’ are happening all over the country and are an essential feature of Navratra. We have all appreciated the Sikh community for feeding millions globally during the pandemic. Should we not learn from them? Just why should we use the pandemic as an excuse to behave like the parasitic Bengali zamindar class which organised lavish Durga Pujo celebrations along with expensive food, drinks, and ‘nautch’ to please their colonial masters (who typically graced the occasion as Chief Guests) while the rest of the population starved? This is the time to introspect. Eating ‘bhog’ together is central to the concept of ‘Sarbojonin’ Durga Pujo which can’t be sacrificed, particularly in current times when so many of our less fortunate brothers and sisters are hungry. The Bengali who grew up listening to Antara Chowdhury singing her father, Salil Chowdhury’s, iconic children’s song “Aye Re Chute Aay Pujor Gondho Eseche” must recall his golden words:

 

“Amar kachhe ja ache shob tomay debo diye

Aaj hashi khushi mitthe hobe tomake bad diye”

(I will share whatever I have with you for happiness is not possible without you)

 

 

Regards,

Malancha

  

Good Bye Dear Friend

 

On an otherwise nondescript September evening in 2015, I announced to my friends and Guru that I had a new job at a think tank called ORF and would be joining from the next day. No one except Malavika Aunty, a friendly elderly lady who learnt music with me, had heard of ORF. She said excitedly, “I know ORF. My niece Joyee (as Joyeeta was fondly called by family and close friends) works there. She can be your friend”. The next day I reported for work both excited and scared at 9, much before other colleagues. By sheer coincidence, I was given a seat right opposite Joyeeta. As any new place, ORF seemed like a mystery to me. A senior colleague sitting close to me was enjoying his breakfast while reading the newspaper and slowly went off to sleep. As I was used to more formal settings, I was pleasantly surprised. Then Joyeeta came and sat down at her seat and I rose up to introduce myself. That was the beginning of our friendship.

We hit off instantly. Both of us had similar interests – good food, jokes, sarees, music, and generally chilling around. We often agreed that the only reason we worked was the fun that came with it. Money and making a mark in the research world was secondary. We often went out for lunch together, shopped together, and had golgappas at Bengali Market. She had a much better idea than me in where to eat what so she was the leader and I was the good follower. Often she took me to places to eat and later I took my sister, family or other friends there. So conversations with my friends and family often started, “Joyeetadi took me there and the food was awesome. We must go there”. But most important were sarees and saree days in office were a serious matter for both of us. She loved sarees, shopped a lot and received a lot of gifts from her husband and also extended family. She had a lot of friends in Bangladesh, her area of specialization, and received Dhakai Jamdani sarees from there too. She shared every detail. Who gave, what were the special features of those sarees, the weavers who weaved them etc. I often complained Africans never give gifts. I wish I worked on Bangladesh.

Shortly after I joined ORF, Manish (my husband) and my parents got together and started preparing for our marriage. As we were very close, I shared all my anxieties and excitements with her. I was quite anxious because of the huge differences in our backgrounds, Manish’s atheism and refusal to participate in religious rituals, and the hyper-religiousity of so many of our family members. Some of the comments I got such as “men change after marriage”, “love marriages don’t last”, “men are one thing when they are wooing a woman another after marriage”, “his family and mother will not let you work after marriage” and the most common one “so no more non-veg for you after marriage” drove me crazy. One day someone said, “ab music to bhul jao shadi ke baad”. And I broke down and rushed to her. There were 10 days left to my wedding and someone was trying to tell me I had only ten days left to live. Joyeetadi sensed the tension and said ‘let’s take coffee”. What followed was a one-hour counselling session in which she told me very firmly, “Nothing of that sort will happen. Manish loves you he will keep you very happy. Why do you listen to such people? Every one doesn’t have the same experiences. Look at Subimal. He always encourages me to dance. He encourages me to do work. Just relax”. Subimal, her husband featured in every third sentence that she spoke. Her love for him was so reassuring. Next she told me something that completely shifted my mind from anything else that was going around. Subimalda had bought two meklas, one for her and one for me. The excitement of receiving a mekhla from Assam was too much for me. I told my mom in advance that the gift from her had to be kept carefully because it was a special mekhla for me.

The real life after marriage was actually closer to what Joyeetadi had predicted. I flourished professionally and personally. Manish, as a husband was so different from the boyfriend that he was. Super caring, loving, and encouraging. I felt the intense love that Subimalda and she had because I knew a lot of the little details of their life. Their funny fights, every time Subimalda teased for being overdressed or her dieting. We laughed and shared everything with each other. Often other colleagues in ORF were amused at our friendship and wondered how we managed to stick around together so much. Most people in office were also aware of her dieting and she often shared the benefits of eating quinoa. But that was another funny story for I knew how non-serious and non-committed she was. After a full week of eating salads, she and Subimalda would go to Purani Dilli to eat breakfast, follow it up with a full Bengali meal, go for a Dinner party. Monday morning, she would be back with salads and complain that it was “Subimal” who was to blame and not her with a big and bright smile.

Not many people knew how deeply committed she was to the region she studied. Her knowledge of Indo-Bangladesh border areas and Bangladesh was very nuanced. I learnt so much from her during our conversations and often told her to write more. I used to give her a lot of ideas to write short stories out of her interactions with people during her fieldwork and also encouraged her to write in Bengali, her mother tongue. She agreed with me but was overburdened by organizing and also the philanthropic activities that she and her husband did together. In one of the programmes that they organized, Manish and I were invited. This was a cultural programme to showcase the richness of the Barak Valley. It was a great experience for me and Manish who learnt a lot and got to know the importance of the work that they were doing together.

A few messages to her wishing her on the Bengali New year (a day we were always dressed in Saree in office and went out to Banga Bhawan to eat) were unanswered. Then I got to learn from colleagues that she is hospitalized and then came a frantic call from my sister. “Just saw Samir Saran’s tweet. Is it the same Joyeeta?”. That ended everything. No more Dhakai sarees, no more golgappas at Bengali market, no more discussions on Assamese politics, NRC, and Bangladesh, no more ‘Subimal this Subimal that’. Last Tuesday, it was my turn to call up Malavika Aunty, and inform her of the terrible news that her niece is no more. This is death which ends everything. Our dear Joyeeta, very smiling, slightly temperamental, who knew how to love is no more. She has left behind a Joyeeta-shaped in me. In such a short period of time, she was so much to me. All the discussions of maternity and my little son which I can never have with her now that she is gone. And I am here at home, listening to the helpless stories of friends who are struggling for oxygen, hospital beds and also going through the loss of their loved ones, waiting for my own turn.

Can technology help me get away?

Technology has brought all of us very close. At one instant I can reach out to my cousin in another city or country. I don't write letters or have long and interesting conversations, and never miss anyone. I have a very good idea of the political opinions of all my relatives and where all my friends and cousins went for a vacation and also what they cooked over the weekend (photos of food must be uploaded as well!). Is there a way to not know all this? Is there a way to really miss someone. Remember someone without really being able to text them instantly? Is there a way to just engage with some people only once a year that too without literally feeling the anger that they feel over a certain political development? There is off course the 'freedom' to leave the platform. But should the mode of engagement necessarily be 'all or nothing'. Is it possible to retain the elusiveness of the yesteryears and still be a part of the 'connected world'? Am I being nostalgic? or worse, stupid?