By Antara Mukherjee
A strange thing happened.
A cobra came to our house in Burdwan two days ago. It stayed for few minutes in the washroom downstairs and then vanished in the dark. The caretakers were terribly frightened. They wanted to kill it by any means. When I got the call, I told them to wait for some time without even trying to do anything. Somehow, I knew it would go away on its own. And it did.
My mind raced back to the years when I was in school. One evening, to our horror, a cobra was discovered in my brother’s bedroom on the second floor. We shouted our heart out while my mother kept staring at it in silence with folded hands. After few seconds, it magically vanished. She looked at the calendar, hanging from the wall, and in a calm tone, declared that it wasn’t an ordinary cobra but Goddess Manasa, the Goddess of snakes, who came to ask for her annual worship; she further told us that whenever this would happen in future no one should try to do any harm to the snake but prepare to offer favourites to the Goddess.
Strangely, snakes kept visiting our house, infrequently though, before Manasa puja[1] and my mother wasted no time in preparing for her annual offerings. She, however, never cooked the day before, as was the usual practice related to the annual worship known as Aarandhan or No-Cooking Day. It is a ritual where Bengali households refrained from cooking on the day of worship and ate whatever had been cooked the day before, after offering the same to the Goddess. Neither the typical menu associated with Aarandhan— for instance, five types of vegetable fritters, vegetable mishmash, mixed vegetables, varied fish preparations and sweet dishes — nor the practice of eating previously cooked meal was a part of my mother’s annual worship of the Goddess. Her way of honouring the Goddess was a matter of pleasing her with a personal touch, something that was beyond the shackles of set rituals. As I grew up and got entangled in all sorts of activities, I hardly cared to ask her about such serpentine visitations. I don’t recall any such occurrences in the last seven-eight years until day before yesterday.
My mother was deeply religious and immensely superstitious. She had her own worldview about things, especially anything related to Goddess Kali — Goddess Manasa, being an incarnation, was quite honoured by her, though Manasa was not the coveted Goddess to be worshipped. In our locality, Viswakarma[2] puja, which falls on the last day of the Bengali month Bhadra, that is mid-September, is observed with huge pomp and glitter as we live in the same locality where the main power supply plant of Burdwan is located. On the same day of Viswakarma puja, Manasa puja is also observed. Close to the boundary of our house, every year a huge pandal is constructed by the working-class people and a sort of community meal is served. My mother never went to the power supply plant to offer puja, but to the pandal for Manasa. She strongly believed that it is her devotion that kept the snakes/evil away from her three children. When we would become unmindful of the power of Goddess, she told us, Manasa would send her agent to remind us!
As I have hardly believed in my mother’s self-constructed logic, I never subscribed to her practices. But, this time, with the cobra coming home, I felt I was being instructed to offer something to Manasa. I couldn’t believe myself doing this, but I called up the caretakers and coordinated so that Manasa got her favourites from us.
“Rinku, please buy some fruits, milk and a packet of sweets and offer it to Goddess Manasa tomorrow. Make sure that you remember doing this.” I gave clear instructions to our homehelp.
In my mind, I prepared myself to visit the Goddess the next day, to see how she was doing!
Before the car took a turn towards Power House Para, my locality, Kumar Sanu[3]‘s powerful nasal tone that dominated my adolescence, reached my ears:
“Tu meri zindegi hai/Tu meri har khushi hai/Tu hi pyaar tuhi chahat /Tu hi aashiqui hai…(You are my life/You are my joy/You are my desire/You are my love) [4]
This song from the movie, Aashiqui[5], welled up fragments of my past. There used to be a time when I waited for ‘Pujor gaan‘ or Bengali songs released during the puja. Almost all the notable singers of the time came up with new albums, yet Kumar Sanu was the unrivalled King. I passed my teens and jumped into adulthood with his superhit song – ‘Priyotoma mone rekho (‘Keep me in your heart, sweetheart’).’ That afternoon, after more than two decades, I heard him singing, again – ‘Koto je sagar nadi periye elam ami /Koto poth holam je paar/Tomar moton eto oporup shundor/ Dekhini to kauke je aar...(‘I crossed the seas/I walked through ways/ The beauty that you are/ I haven’t met’).’ Almost hypnotised, I got down from the car and walked straight to the direction of the pandal. I needed no Pied Piper from Hamlin; we, Bengalis have our own, the nasal Sanu. The closer I got, the louder he sang. Soon, familiar faces surfaced —
“Good to see you.” Lahiri Aunty shouted from her balcony.
“Same here.” I shouted back
The Lahiris and the Mukherjees are literally ‘samne wali khidki’[6], existing on the opposite lane, of Power House Para[7]. While my mother and Aunty went on talking for hours from their respective balconies, the doctor husbands silently attended to their respective patients in their respective chambers downstairs — a practice that went on for almost forty years.
The weather-beaten balconies have witnessed to the transformations in both the families. Lahiri Aunty was still standing on hers, while ours was empty. Instantly, I found myself standing there at the wee hours of a certain nineties morning, when Kumar Sanu was ruling the music industry and Uncle, the field of Dermatology, watching my father rushing to the Lahiris. Within few moments, our red telephone rang. I came inside and my mother told me to follow her immediately to the Lahiris. Inside their first-floor bedroom, for the second time in my life, I saw a dead body. Uncle’s eyes were closed. Aunty sat motionless. My mother went the window and sat beside her dear friend. I had nothing to do. I kept staring at various showpieces collected by them from all over the world. When my grandfather died couple of years earlier than Uncle, I had my cousin, Tiya, to play with me. We had our freedom then; the elders were busy. It was fun. Death had no power to scratch me, even though I saw a dead body for the very first time.
At the Lahiris that morning, not a sound could be heard. A house where harmonium, tabla and sitar existed in harmony, was unusually quiet. After Uncle, however, Aunty continued to sing but Kumar Sanu never ever dared to peep into her bedroom. She had the classics of Bengali music for her company. In contrast, I welcomed everyone in my life. From Kishore Kumar to Rafi, from Kumar Sanu to Udit Narayan, from Baba Saigal to Apache Indian etc[8], I brought all the cassettes that were available in the market. I was largely spoiled by my elder brother. Madonna, Michael Jackson, Backstreet Boys, Spice Girls, Harry Belafonte, Elton John, Phil Collins etc[9] were supplied by him and by some of my school friends. It was my elder brother who inculcated in me a deep love for what he called the four pillars of Hindi music: Kishore Kumar-Asha Bhonsle -R.D. Burman-Gulzar. I was in class eight when I heard ‘Sei rate rat chilo purnima/Mon chilo falguni hawate[10] (‘It was a full moon night/ my mind wandered in the spring air’)’. I replayed it ten times in our old, black tape-recorder. A hot and humid afternoon seemed so breezy then. And when dusk came, I became a moon-gazer. I have never stopped looking at the gorgeous lady ever since.
Since Viswakarma, Manasa and Kali pujas were observed in our locality with much gusto, I got the chance to listen to and update myself with the recent puja releases. At the same time, I also became aware of the oldies. A locality mostly consisting of doctors, engineers and professors, the choice of songs played was up to a certain standard. It was only when I went to one of the most notorious of colleges in town that I became acquainted with the masala numbers and I loved them! With time, the second generation took hold of the pujas and likewise the choice of songs to be played underwent a rapid change. Soft, romantic numbers as well as Jhankar beats were preferred. It was a time when Kumar Sanu gave voice to all the Khans — Shah Rukh, Salman, Amir [11]— and to seniors like Jackie, Anil and Sanjay[12]. Amongst Bengali Puja songs, Kumar Sanu somehow managed to coexist with the neo-liberal paracetamols of the nineties – Suman, Anjan and Nachiketa[13]. When ‘Bhoomi’, a Bengali band, swayed us with their hit songs, all sweethearts or ‘priyotomas’ were earnestly desired through Sanu’s nasal voice. The loudspeakers constantly amplified Sanu’s songs — be it the contemporary Bengali numbers or Bollywood hits. He was, as if, the unavoidable menu in our daily music-buffet.
My mother was cool about the change in the songs being played in our para-pandals but her friend, Lahiri Aunty, probably, was not. Bathed in the classics of Nirmala Mishra, Kanika Bandyopadhyay, Satinath Mukhopadhyay et al, she shut all her doors and windows when the speakers howled – ‘Ke bole Thakuma tomar / boyesh periye geche aashi! (It is unbelievable that Grandma/ you have crossed eighty)’– another Sanu blockbuster! She kept herself confined within the four walls and rarely came out in the balcony. Ma was always downstairs, on the streets, without caring which song was being played. Her attention was fixed at the puja, be it Kali or Manasa.
I don’t remember Lahiri Aunty joining her during Manasa Puja. But she enthusiastically participated during Kali Puja’s final ritualistic bidding adieu to the goddess, boron, and then, in sindoor khela[14], a community practice where married women smear each other’s cheeks with vermilion powder. Aunty was the first to do boron and then to start the typical sindoor khela. Unmarried girls like us were not spared either. I disliked the rubbing of vermilion in my cheeks but who had the courage to say ‘no’ to her? After Uncle passed away, she stopped coming for boron and my mother, in solidarity, refrained herself from participating in the play. But nothing, absolutely nothing, could deter her from the elaborate preparation for the puja.
“So, puja means you would get a chance to harm your body by eating those items which you are not supposed to eat, right?” I often rebuked my mother.
“You are mistaken. I don’t eat anything. I offer everything to the Lord.” She was always ready with her defence.
I strongly believe that it was her blind devotion and irrationalities that drove her astray. I could no longer tolerate any ritual after her cremation. However, within one-and-half-year of her passing away, strangely enough, that same me, was standing in front of a Snake Goddess and repeating what her mother used to do.
*
“Here, take some prasad[15],” Nitai, the little boy of yesteryear, now a responsible local boy, in-charge of the Durga puja, offered a plate full of fruits and sweets. I don’t know for how long I was standing at the steps to the mandir[16]. His husky voice jolted me out of my inertia.
“How are you doing?” I asked him.
“Oh, I am very busy. Where were you yesterday?” He questioned
“I have just come.”
“I hope you’ll be with us during Durga puja?”
With no one waiting for me at home, why should I come to Burdwan during that time? I asked myself. Why should I pray to the Goddess whose annual visit, three years back, robbed me of my greatest treasure? My wounds were still fresh.
He probably read my silence.
“Don’t worry at all. Uncle and Aunty have left the world but we are there for you. It’s where you were born. It’s your locality. Your roots are here. You must come.”
The para or locality where I grew up has changed a lot. My life, too, underwent massive transformations. Nobody awaits my arrival here anymore. Yet some things remain. Most importantly, my past remains, my root remains, my delightful memories remain. And in them, my parents still breathe. Why should I stop myself from generating further memories? Why won’t I live for my happiness too?
I smiled and assured him that I will be back. He was still holding the plate of Prasad.
“I have given up sweets. I am taking a piece of cucumber, okay?”
“This is the blessing from Goddess. Nothing will happen if you take some,” he insisted.
Greedily, I picked up a batasha, a flat, coarse whitish sweet, and started to munch on. Ah! that heavenly feeling! When did I last eat a full batasha? I could not remember. We now have fancy sweets as prasad. The indigenous sweets like batasha, nokuldana — tiny, roundish sugary substance — are fast vanishing from the platter of Bengali prasad.
During our childhood, nokuldanas and batashas had been middle-class Bengalees’ coveted folk-sweets. Roshogollas, pantuas or even malpuas, traditional Bengali sweets, were prepared by my mother on special days. But we always had jars of nokuldanas and batashas readily available at home. For an unannounced guest, a domestic help, a hungry beggar, the next-door child and, most importantly, for me, always looking out for something to munch on, batashas were generously distributed. However, she disliked my habit of stealing them from her Gods! Normally, after daily puja, I, reflexively, snatched batashas from her offerings and, in no time, crunched them inside my mouth. She cursed me for being so impatient. In those days, contrary to the softness of Bengali sweets, the crispy sound and feel of both nakuldana and batasha gave me an unparalleled satisfaction of winning over an invisible opponent.
After the ritualistic offerings, when my mother went inside her room to change (normally, she wore a special white and red saree for Puja purposes), I practically, ‘stole’ all the nokuldanas and batashas from the small silvery plates of her Gods and Goddesses. They were readily available candy to me. After her evening worship or during Satyanarayan puja, I watched with rapt attention the making of shinni– a semi liquid mixture of flour, banana, batasha, sweets, milk and dry fruits, treated as a special offering to the Gods. Particularly, I watched her hands, mercilessly squeezing the bananas, breaking the batashas and mixing milk and curd until it formed a smooth, soft semi-solid paste. We were at loggerheads, for her unmindful crushing of the batashas irked me to the core. It was, as if, she was bent on breaking the backbone of my childhood fantasies. I enjoyed the masculinity of the batashas amongst her otherwise feminine palate of prasad. I still avoid crushing batashas. I feel terrible to see them silently disintegrate.
My precious memories of this rustic sweet were challenged by the Bengal politician, Anubrata’s gur-batasha politics; like a palimpsest, the visuals of my mother’s white cream-like smooth right hand, adorned with gold rings, a red and golden bangles, submerged in a copper tumbler full of flour, milk, fruits and batasha, surfaced in my mind. Ironically enough, the last desert which she ate before she passed away was shinni and, in all probability, it caused infection in her blood. An insulin-dependent, dialysis patient, after all, was not supposed to take such concentrated sweet items. But it was impossible to rationalise her. In Nitai’s plate of prasad, I saw her hand and felt the touch on my palm, as if asking me to take another sweet from it. But I controlled myself. I am not going to spoil my body after having witnessed the gradual disintegration of my mother’s body due to uncontrolled diabetes.
“Goodbye. We shall meet soon.” I waved at Nitai and left the pandal.
As I came home, instructions followed: “Rinku, please spread carbolic acid properly. We cannot take any risk with snakes.”
“Don’t worry. Snakes won’t come now. It came to ask for Puja. Your mother used to worship Manasa. Now that she is not there, you’ll have to carry forward the tradition.”
Rinku spoke like a philosopher. I was surprised to find her so relaxed! Just two days back she almost fainted when the Cobra had come.
I looked at my mother, hanging from the wall, and smiled.
“So you will make me do such things even in your invisible mode!” I communicated to her in silence.
Just then, it started to rain. I saw her smiling back at me.
Like the images of my mother’s jars of mixed pickle, her stories are stored in the depth of my unconscious mind. Whenever I need to energise myself, I take a scoop out and revitalise myself, the physical destruction of her body notwithstanding.
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[1] Praying, normally in a community festival in this case
[2] The architect to the Hindu pantheon of Gods.
[3] Kedarnath Bhattacharya, popularly known as Kumar Sanu, a playback singer in India
[4] Hindi Bollywood song
[5] Bollywood film translates to ‘Romance’ from Hindi
[6] A reference to a popular Bollywood song – translates to ‘the window in front’
[7] Locality
[8] Indian popular singers
[9] Western pop singers
[10] A song by Kishore Kumar
[11] Bollywood actors
[12] Bollywood actors
[13] Bengali pop singers
[14] Sindoor is the vermilion powder worn by married women in the partings of their hair and Khela means play in Bengali. Women play with sindoor to bid the Goddess farewell.
[15] Offering of food for Gods
[16] Temple
Antara Mukherjee is the editor of three books and a Member of Review Boards of International Journals. She is a part of West Bengal Educational Service, Govt of West Bengal. She is presently teaching at the Dept. of English, Durgapur Govt College.
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