‘Coz Europe is not just about its summer

Europe gets a lot of tourists in summer. But December is a fantastic time to visit as well. The Christmas lights are up, the Christmas Market is up and running, tiny lights and decorative snowflakes are on every street, every shop, every home, and every corner. Even the cold air feels rather magical. Everyone is so well-dressed and happy, even while doing their groceries and mundane chores. 

Most things for me have a three-point reference- India, US, and Germany. Christmas decorations in Kolkata are nice, but nostalgia and old memories have a lot to do with it. Christmas in the US is nice too, but there is an obvious element of commercialism to it- the same big giants selling you stuff, promising huge deals as you walk in the giant shopping malls that are lit from head to toe. Huge Christmas trees, a few floors high. Downtowns and residential neighborhoods lit up. Everything in the US is huge scale-wise. 

But Germany is different. Smaller. More local. More crowded. Way prettier. More culturally diverse. Cobbled streets and pretty churches. Quaint cafes. Gluhwein and Bratwurst by the streets. Almost no disposable cups and plates. People walking and taking the public transport way more. I could travel in trains and buses and just look at people all day. I used to think that where I live is predominantly White, and there is no diversity, but even if it were true, I see Germans with all shades of natural hair color, from complete blonde to a few shades lighter than mine. 

It feels good just to walk around the lit up streets and listen to people talk. No one is in a hurry. Everyone takes their time to eat, drink, and make merry. I don't know much German, but these days, I know enough German to know if someone is not speaking in German, if that makes sense. And I hear that quite a bit, other languages that I do not understand. Perhaps Polish. Danish. Swedish. A lot of Scandinavian sellers show up at the Christmas Markets to sell all kinds of locally made stuff- artwork, chocolates, alcohol, and what not. Restaurants are packed, streets are swarming with people, and there is an undeniable magic on the streets this time of the year. If you do not mind the cold, Europe is THE place to visit late November/December. 

sunshine

Happy Diwali, Bollywood?

I always thought that Bollywood would have a healthy collection of songs suitable for any Indian festival, but I am not so convinced anymore. The lack of an optimal number of songs dedicated to the festival Diwali (optimal number n being greater than five) only reconfirms my theory that ours is a sex-driven race, just like any other species in the animal kingdom. Have you ever thought why there are hundreds of songs for Holi, Sagai, Sangeet, Shaadi, Karwa Chauth, God Bharai, or even Nag Panchami (characterized by the sinuous dance moves of a reptile-turned-heroine-turned-reptile cursed by some black robe wearing evil man) but only three songs for Diwali? I would argue that in a testosterone and estrogen-driven society where macro-level phenomenon like preening, grooming, mate hunting, courtship, marriage, and procreation exist in any random order, there is no respectable place for a festival which lacks the insinuations of the primal needs of man, namely rain, color, hormones, or the need to touch, want, and hug. Come to think of it, there are hundreds of songs not just for festivals, but for seasons, be it the cot-displacing brrrring of the winter when the khatiya is begged to be sarkaoed because of jaada, the jeth ki garmi waali dopahar (where the heroine instructs the hero - aake god mein utha thaam le baiyan), or the obvious tip tip barsa spawning season. After all, what could be so inviting about a festival characterized by crackers, ear-deafening sounds, the smell of gunpowder, and a bunch of cranky policymakers unhappy about noise pollution? Images of a heavily endowed woman in a flimsy white sari drenched in the rain running around while a male chases her with Holi colors rings a few familiar bells. However, imagine a woman gyrating her hips with a bunch of sparklers and crackers in her hand, hurling fire crackers at unsuspecting males every now and then and singing “Wanna be your chammak challo”? I fail to imagine the latent sexual overtones in this setting. No wonder Bollywood has never really considered dedicating entire songs to the pursuit of the celebration of light and sound, two very important concepts in an extremely dry subject called physics. Sure there are songs with occasional shots of the chick and the lad entwined, playing around with a bunch of sparklers (remember the song Mujhse Mohabbat Ka from Hum Hai Rahi Pyar Ke?), but a random youtube search for Diwali songs yields three results, one from the movie Home Delivery which is not really a “pataakha” item song in any respect, an old song from the time of Akbar where Mukesh’s adenoidal voice (although very melodious) of “Ek who bhi Diwali thi, ek yeh bhi Diwali hai, Ujda hua gulshan hai, rota hua maali hai” sets off a chain reaction of melancholy potent enough to extinguish any number of sparklers and crackers in the world (let’s face it), and another song from the year 1946, where the heroine’s sad state of mind reminded me of the day I had cried buckets at the scary thought of turning 30 because I was convinced that I was approaching senility and half-life decay at an alarming rate. Surely the Ramsay Brothers show more tactile actions (also known as touchy touchy) and hanky (s)panky (amongst ghosts and haunted spirits of course) than these songs do. Sure, there is one song in Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham where SRK makes the grand Bhagwan Ram like entry, but then again, every song in that movie reeks of showoff, celebration, and affluence. No fault of Bollywood, which is just a reflection of the evolution of human race (or the lack of it), which brings me back to my irrefutable theory that everything in life ultimately boils down to preening, courtship, mating, and procreation. And anything that does not involve diaphanous clothing, the consequences of global warming (bouts of hot, wet, and cold weather, pun unintended), an umbrella, a few bees buzzing over a rose, a cot (khatiya), or even a reptile-dance number to save the mate from the curse of the evil man will never make it to the Hindi silver screen.

A very happy Diwali everyone, never mind the disappointment Bollywood has brought us.

[P.S.: I thank my friend S who made me notice the scarceness of Diwali songs in Bollywood, something that I had entirely overlooked for reasons not quite clear to me].

sunshine

Kawta Jaama Holo?

I was shaken out of my reverie where I heard the loud ghonta and shaankh in the wee hours of dawn. It had drizzled the night before, and the cold and dampness in the air made me want to cocoon myself tighter. Shaking off the remnants of sleep, I tried to bring my world into focus again. Apparently, I was no longer in Calcutta, a city where I spent a significant amount of my youth. I was in the U.S. of A., a home away from home, where the heart of Ma Durga beats in a nostalgically similar, yet a painfully different rhythm.

My cousin texted me “Shubho Mahalaya” the other day. It is that time of the year when Ma Durga, her children, and Mahishasura are busy getting spruced up for Pujo. However, Pujo is a different story in this country. Ma Durga’s calendar has been modified for years to suit that of her devotees for the probashi (NRI) Bangali in the US. She visits home not per the tithis of the calendar, but during the weekends, and in the vicinity of community colleges and high school buildings instead of paara, goli, or raasta. Thakur dekha (also known as, pandal hopping) is no longer an activity I associate with hours of walking, standing in lines, brazening the sweltering heat or the torrential downpour that is so characteristic of the pujo-scape in Calcutta. It was refreshing to see such energy reflected everywhere during pujo. I saw it in the faces of people excitedly asking friends and neighbors, “Kawta jaama holo?” (How many sets of new clothes did you buy or were gifted this season?).The real reason of the question was not really to know how many sets of clothes you acquired, but to open up the discussion about all the great places to shop, not to mention announcing to the world of your own count of clothes. I saw it in the scaffolds of the still incomplete puja pandals. I saw it in those craftsmen working diligently to add the final touches of paint on Ma Durga. The otherwise ill-reputed as “dead” city pulsates with life. The smell of pujo permeates the air- a smell characterized not just by the dhup-dhuno, but by puppy love blossoming in every paara or goli, the enthusiasm of shoppers amidst the crazy stampeding, the smell of roadside phuchka and chicken roll, the heart beating to the rhythm of the dhaak, and by loudspeakers blaring anything from “Anjali Mantra” to “Bangla adhunik gaan”, “tu cheez badi hai mast mast” for the braver communities, or “twinkle twinkle little star” recited in monotony by a 4-year old rising star during those “kalcharal nights” organized by her father who also happens to be the secretary of the local pujo’r committee.

Things look somewhat similar here, albeit in a more controlled and otherwise monotonous fashion. You could identify a pujo-hosting high school after hours of being lost in the Amazon rainforests, if only you could find that telltale parking lot filled with the Hondas and the Toyotas mostly in shades of black, blue, or silver. As you shut off the car ignition and adjust your Baluchori sari and the kundan necklace after undoing the seatbelt, other telltale signs clue you in to the venue of the pujo. Mr. Software Sen, otherwise seen in his checkered shorts and Google tee shirt with a cuppa Starbucks coffee as he drives his blue Lexus to office every morning, is spruced up in his dhuti and tussar panjabi and neatly combed hair parted sideways, dutifully handing out lunch coupons and talking unsuspecting and stray pandal hoppers into buying their annual Bangali association membership. Mrs. Anima(ted) Sen, looking straight out of the sets of the movie Devdas in her cream and red sari and her vermilion headed, kohl-smeared eyes and Ma-Kali avatar, chats animatedly about their trip to Greece earlier in summer to spend their 10^th wedding anniversary, urging her bored audiences kitty party pals to check out her Facebook album now replete with “wow” comments and XOXOXOXOs. On a different note, it took years for a dehati-to-the-American-culture like me to figure out that those “showered with love” XOXOXOs found in abundance on Facebook are in no way related to the “kaata-kuti” criss-cross board games you played as a middle school student when the teacher did not make it to class. However, I digress here. The Khokon Shonas and Mamonis are running around in their Baby GAP sweatshirts or Dora pink frilly frocks and Stride Rite shoes. They are happily chomping on their pijjas and Mc Dee burgers especially ordered off the kids menu, because they have been universally stereotyped by their parents to lack the digestive system hardy enough to digest khichuri bhog. Important discussions are churning in the name of socializing and networking- I overhear a group of balding, middle-aged, and bespectacled dadas discussing Green Cards and citizenships, options for stock investment and mortgages, Xboxs andPSP3s, Kinects and Builds, or the awaited deals for the upcoming Thanksgiving Black Friday sales. The mashimas and boudis enthusiastically discuss clothing and jewelry, juicy Facebook gossip, impending annual visits of in-laws, the newest desi store selling Tyangra maach and frozen Lyangra aam, and the awesome videos of their Khokon shonas eating organic strawberries in their Bumbo seats. A bunch of young people form a visibly distinct sub-group – the “fresh off the boat” graduate students, enthusiastically discuss research agenda, upcoming conference deadlines, and demanding advisors, definitely lacking the visible traits and polish of the nouveau riches from the east now living over a decade in this country.

However, no matter how sardonically you choose to look at the Americanized version of Durga Pujo, this is the best you are going to get here. No wonder we convince ourselves over time that there is an undeniable magic, an aura even amidst talks of green cards and Tiffany’s jewelry, our mashima who is visiting her son and his family from Borishal proudly beaming, “amar naati you ass citigen” (My grandson is a US citizen). Our pujari moshai is an investment banker, dutifully chanting mantras, the sacred thread and dhoti a far cry from his menacing corporate look. The dhaaki starts to play the dhaak at some point, ushering people for the session of onjoli, picking up fistfuls of yellow lilies and carnations bought from Trader Joe’s. As usual, I experience the all familiar feeling of getting gooseflesh, tapping my feet to the beat of the dhaak. My blood rings and my soul sings to the beats of the drum. A strange magic suffused with nostalgia fills the air. Durga Pujo will remain a unique celebration for me, incomparable with the pumpkin carvings during Halloween, or the turkey roasting during Thanksgiving. I am shaken out of my reverie yet again when a GAP wearer less than half my height innocuously bumps into me, running around in excitement, followed by his hapless dad who reminds me of a pet trainer. It is the same man who was conversing in Bengali, and now, he is running after his son not with the typically what you would expect “jaashna, jaashna, orey khoka firey aaye” (Come back dear son, don’t scamper around), but with a trained and somewhat accented monosyllabic “Don’t run, come back, sit down, eat your pizza !!”, instructed in a fake accent perhaps for the benefit of the scampering kid who might not understand a word of Bangla spoken at home. I see that “Kaan mola khabi” has been aptly replaced by “You will be grounded!!”.

Somewhere in between my present and my past, in between the uloos (the sounds you make flicking your tongue) and the shaankh (conch shell), I am transported to a different era, awash with joyous anticipation. I am 6 years old and am wearing a bright blue frock my parents bought me from the neighborhood garment store. Then I am a 20 year old, wearing a bright green silk sari that belongs to my mother, that she has painstakingly wrapped around me, safety pins and all. I am with my friends pandal hopping in Madox Square, enlivened by the dazzling beauties exchanging hushed glances and sheepish smiles with the handsomely spruced up pajama-panjabi clad group of young men who have spent the last hour or so visually appraising the chicks (an act also known as jhaari maara). So many love relationships form and dissipate in the vicinity of the pandals by the grace of Goddess Durga every year. While most never make it to the altar, an innocuous glance exchanged or that racing of heart beats as you eyed a bunch of decked up people from the opposite gender works wonders in your otherwise drab life marred by academic pressures, social expectations, and what not. I flip between the past and my 30-year old present, casually glancing around me to look in vain for the now-extinct group of good looking and single men roughly my age. A corpulent mashima just stepped on my sari (and my toes), glaring unapologetically at me for intercepting her trajectory as she walks by. She is the same mashima, I recognize, who was animatedly boasting about her sonny boy studying electrical engineering at MIT. I sigh, zoning out of my surroundings for the moment and focusing on the beauty of Ma Durga’s face instead. Of all the things that have changed around me (for better or for worse) in the last few decades of my pujo experience, people, social dynamics, pompousness and all, Ma Durga is the only one who has not changed, still looking as young and stunning as she used to for as long as I can remember. So beautiful, so powerful, yet so very feminine. The only thing that brings in unalloyed joy for me is the visage of Ma Durga and her children. And the smell of pujo. Not to mention the music of the dhaak. Or sometimes the familiar feeling of excitement I used to have as a kid as I marveled at the six packs and brawns of the demon Mahishasura.

sunshine

One-Two-Three-Start !!!

This weekend, I went to my FIRST dandiya night in life. Many of my friends did not believe that it was my first time. They were as surprised as they were when I went to watch Bourne Ultimatum with them and dozed off midway. 

"What’s the big deal?”, I asked. You guys aren’t from Gujarat, are you?

“Gujarat or not, dandiya dancing is the cool thing to do”, came the reply.

Which made sense. Thanks to the K-serials and the KJo genre of entertainment, being a Gujarati or a Punjabi was definitely the cool thing.

So I went to the dandiya, more out of curiosity than the desire to shake a leg. Given how and where I was brought up, asking permission for staying out late and shaking a leg to the dandiya was not eve an option. That dandiya stick would have broken on my back, given the perception of late-night dandiyas. 

But this isn't Kolkata, and I did not need permission anymore. So donning my best clothes, here I was on my first dandiya dance floor.

If you asked me to describe the scene in one word, the word would be COLORFUL ! In a huge room, men and women with colorful, ethnic clothes were dancing their way around. Little children looked even more cute in their mini ghagras and cholis, jumping to the beats of music. People were dancing in concentric circles, the two inner ones for garba and the two outer ones with the sticks. 

I grew up watching Chitrahaar, where occasionally, Amitabh Bachchan would dance to the tune of “Hey naam re, sabse badaa tera naam, o sherawali” donning a piece of cloth on his forehead. Bollywood glamorized dandiya even more with time. And I thought, it's easy. Just clap your hands or clap the sticks to the beat.

So the first time I saw these people on the dance floor, I was like, "Look, I'm on the sets of Hum dil de chuke sanam!" Picking those steps were harder than I thought.  So I stuck to the simpler 6 beat and 8 beat movements of the garba. Still, I injured fingers, stepped on toes, bumped into people behind me, and confused the rights from the lefts. It was fun, but it was chaotic! I even saw a few White people who had donned their ethnic clothes perfectly and danced away without a care in the world. Wonder what took me 25 years to get here.

We kept dancing in circles till by head spun and reeled and all the faces floated above me. The floor was wooden, and it hurt. The same steps, 1-2-3-1-2-3 and the same dance became monotonous. The DJ played some awfully slow number after heightening the mood. So we formed a group and the moment the beats picked up speed, we started to dance Bhangra amid a room full of dandiya people. It was so much fun! Sticks in hand and our legs alternatively floating mid air, we were jumping to the beats of hayo rabba.

Three hours of dancing and I was done for the day. Even after 3 days, I am still limping, thanks to the wooden floors. “Coming the next time?”- someone asked me. Sure. But this time, I’d like to sit and watch people dance, and revel in the festivity. Unless of course I pick up the steps of Dholi Taro in the meantime.

sunshine

The Ten Things To Do This Pujas.

(Not necessarily in any order).
1. To unleash the Bengali in me and to learn to wear a sari the Bengali way.
2. To catch up on all the Bollywood movies I have missed out recently.
3. To finally start cleaning up the mess in my room.
4. To get loads of beauty naps.
5. To read all the books I have been collecting the last 5 years or so, with no time to read.
6. To gawk at all the good looking guys.
7. To promise not to say "no" to sweets for the 5 long days. Never mind if I have to diet for the rest of the year. Ma Durga would never want her children to diet during the pujas.
8. To go find myself that man who will give me those eight diamonds happily.
9. To go pandal hopping and watch lots of puja. I wasn't enthusiastic enough the last year. But this year will be different. So I will hop on to my bed, grab a bowl of pop corn, put on some good local channel like Star Anondo, and watch lots of pujas on the TV with grandma (Naah, you can't really convince me to go pandal hopping amidst all the crowd and commotion).
10. To finally cut down on chatting and blogging those 5 days of pujas.

sunshine.

Something Is In The Air....

I was shaken out of my slumber by the sounds of “ghanta” and “shankh” very early this morning. It was drizzling all night and the cold winds made me long to get back to my covers, cuddle the pillow close, and go back to sleep. As I tried to shake off the last remnants of sleep (I am a very early riser) and to bring my world into focus once again, I remember that Durga Puja is just a week away. Seems Ma Durga and her clan of Gods and Goddesses (and Mahisasura as well) are busy getting spruced up for the pujas.
The whole city seems to have suddenly come to life again. The scent of pujas is in the air. And I see it everywhere. I see it on the faces of people. I see it in the scaffolds of the still incomplete puja pandals. I see it in those craftsmen working diligently to add the final touches of paint on Ma Durga. For pujas is not just a 5 day event when you wear new clothes, gorge in kilos of sweets, and go pandal hopping. It’s emotional, and it's a celebration that starts weeks before and lingers like sweet nostalgia even when it is all over.

Kolkata is a city with a soul. I hardly liked it when I first came to live here 8 years back. But with time, the city grew on me. There is an undeniable magic, an aura that emanates, a feeling of being home that begins to grow on you with time. For a city is not merely impressive buildings and shopping malls and prospering industries. It is essentially the people.

And God knows I still get goosebumps at the sounds of the dhaak. It seems as if my blood rings and my soul sings to the drum beats. And you have to be a pretty insensitive pachyderm not to feel the magic suffusing the air when dhaakis play the dhaak (for the uninitiated, watch Parineeta).

Being a “Probashi Bangali” (one who is not born or brought up in Bengal), Durga Puja wasn’t any different to me than say Christmas, or Eid. I had seen Puja outside Bengal, and it meant all the same to me.... decorative pandals, people in new clothes, cultural functions, and loudspeakers honking with the recent hindi movie songs. So I could never comprehend why people said, “You have to be in Kolkata to get the real feel of the Pujas”.

But I got this real feel when I came to Kolkata. And from then on, I’ve waited each and every year for the pujas to come. Right now, the whole of me is awash with joyous anticipation. There is something in the air that drastically enlivens me. Though there are so many things I am equally scared of.

I am so scared of the Q factor. And these days, I find it everywhere. I see queues in metro station ticket counters, in front of shops, in restaurants, in pandals. I do not see the logic why people would like to stand in queues for hours to buy a pair of shoes or to get into a pandal. And the metro has never been more crowded. It is funny seeing people carrying half a dozen packets of clothes and sweets and what not. And even cranky children screaming out for attention or complaining husbands cannot deter the spirits of the Bengali woman on her shopping spree. I do not see people stinting and scrimping on their shopping budget. Every body seems to be basking in the imperial glory despite the financial strata they belong to.

I see the shops dazzling with lights and people, discount boards hung everywhere, food joints filled to capacity, thousands of people laughing and shopping and eating, the kids dancing and screaming around. I see the passion of the cheerful crowds, the warmth of being together, the joy of celebration, the pride in artistic expression. And I see the bacchanalia everyday, everywhere, on every face, be it a kid or a 70 year old. Every body seems to be thriving on buckets of Bournvita that gives them all the energy and enthusiasm for a celebration of this level. Even the bad weather during the last few years and the low pressure and the constant drizzling and water logged streets and traffic snarls has been unable to dampen the spirits of the Calcuttan.

And then you see love birds exchanging hushed glances and sheepish smiles. So many love relationships are made in the meeting grounds of Maddox Square by the grace of Goddess Durga every year. Never mind whether they make it to the altar or not. Sometimes, an innocuous fling is good enough a change from the dull, drab life, that leaves sweet memories for years to come.

On that note, happy puja.


sunshine.