A wistful Journey
A gush of mild autumn wind blew away Mitu’s shiny black hair from her face while she was standing on the crumbling terrace of their ancestral house that was located in some border village of West Bengal. She got a familiar smell that suddenly took her back to childhood spent in a small town in Assam. It is the feel of misty wind mixed with a smell of damp soil and that of the shiuli flowers which used to announce the onset of Durga Puja. She saw herself running around in her courtyard with her grandmother gathering shiuli flowers on her tiny frock from a bed of wet grass. This is nothing but nostalgia she thought. The sun used to be mild and the days were full of excitement on the prospect of the coming Durga Puja and Dipawali. A long holiday, new clothes and regular visits to the Puja Pandals with her family followed by yummy snacks were things that she and her brother used to look forward to.
The countdown used to start with a visit to the nearest Pratima Khanikar’s (sculptor’s) house since the day he had started putting clay on the straw and stick figures. They used to watch with wide open eyes how the idol used to take shape step by step. A run to the Khanikar’s house with friends from the nearby village after school was a regular ritual. Had any of them missed a day, the rest would come and give the updates. She remembered the faces of all the Goddesses for many years. They were shaped with such perfect curves and features. She used to wonder why women from the real world were not so beautiful. Maa Durga used to look so powerful and full of life once all the accessories and weapons were put up on the idol! Kartik used to be a symbol of all that a good looking man should posses. How she wished her future husband looked like Kartik. He actually used to look like a Tamil film hero with a well shaped moustache! She thought and a smile played in her face. And the Mahishasur! He used to look like one of the villagers who toiled in the paddy field or tea gardens. With dark skin, strong muscles and curly black hair and a bleeding buffalo on the bottom he possibly had everything that cut him from the rest of the cast.
She remembered her father reading in news papers about the Durga Puja in big cities like Guwahati and Kolkata and she and her brother used to listen to him with wide open eyes about the massive idols, decorated pandals, food stalls and people thronging the city roads whole night to visit the pandals. She used to look forward to the morning puja and anjali with her mother and aunt and evening Arati where the pundit worships the Goddess with the smoking earthen pots and incense sticks with drums beating loud. And they were happy with their small celebrations, a ride in her father’s bicycle around the town with colourful balloons in hand or in a cycle rickshaw with her mother and aunt or eating hot jelebies and aloo chops that her father used to get in the evening. She grew up in her small town and went to hostel later but always preferred to be at her hometown during every festival.
When she came to Kolkata after marriage she took pretty long to adjust to the overcrowded roads, heavy traffic and the massive buildings and cramped houses. During her first Durga Pujo in the city, she was more of a beholder rather than a part of the whole celebration. She never could actually become a part of such a huge experience. She used to feel lost in the big Pujo crowd and insisted that she visited the pandals in daytime when there were less people around. After a year or so, she went out of Kolkata with her husband Deepak for his job posting and their visit to Kolkata during Pujo turned out to be rather a homecoming where they preferred staying at home and going out for lunch or dinner with friends and family. It was also because Reva was young and she never liked to go out in a crowded place that their outings were scarce.
This year, she deliberately took the decision to spend the Pujo in Deepak’s Desher bari, a place where he used to spend his childhood Durga Pujos and had stopped coming after he grew up because of his commitments with friends and then with his job. The old house had its own charm with tall stairs, thick walls and a big balcony and terrace to laze around. The four hours journey by a local train and a van rickshaw ride were pretty hectic but she felt at peace with herself the moment she reached there. There were just a few houses nearby as most of the people had migrated to the city. There was a Pujo Dalan on the common courtyard surrounded by a few homes that belonged to their extended family members. The day was Panchami and the sculptor was giving the final touch to the idol and the male members of the family were helping him. She saw a crowd of half naked kids standing outside the Pujo Dalan with curious eyes to get a glimpse of the idol. They belonged to the fishermen’s village nearby who had excess to only two Pujos in the village.
It was a custom for all the females in the family to take an early bath and do their duties in the kitchen and the temple. They needed to cut fruits, make garlands and decorate the thalas for worship with all the ingredients. Mitu was also ready in the morning wearing a crisp handloom sari complete with shakha pola and sindoor. She came to the terrace to dry up her wet long hair in the early morning sun and it was the misty smell of shiuli flowers in the air which had taken her back to a journey down the memory lane. She was lost in her thoughts when Parvati called her from behind.
“O Boudi, Maa has asked you to help in the kitchen or breakfast would be late. She is preparing the Naibedya for the morning Pujo downstairs”. She said cleaning the terrace with a broomstick.
Parvati is the permanent maid in the house whose duty is mainly cleaning and washing. Mitu looked around the backyard of their house while making a bun with her long hair and saw the trees, thick green jungle and the mossy remains of the deserted houses. In between the jungle was a narrow lane that led towards the pond and the village behind. She saw two women washing clothes and a few kids playing around. And, there it was! A shiuli plant, bending over a fence with the weight of season’s full bloom! The tiny white flowers with orange stems had covered the grass under the plant. Mitu took a long breath and walked down the stairs. Wilfully, she came out of the house with the back door and started walking through the lane, bare-footed as if hypnotized by the magical smell. Suddenly, she felt like a young girl full of excitement who needed to gather the flowers before anybody else picked up. Had she not been wearing a sari, she would have run. Without looking around, she went straight towards the plant and started gathering the fresh flowers on her sari end with childlike enthusiasm. She came back with a lap full of flowers as if she had just won a long lost battle again oblivious of the staring eyes and suppressed laughter.
“You could have asked Parvati’s daughter to pick up the flowers for you. What would people say if you run around like this?” Mitu’s mother-in-law said looking at her as she was walking up. She did not notice nor did she felt the need of any explanation. She kept on walking up the stairs unaffected and smiling. She was lost in the humdrum course of life and just now, at the backyard of the house she met herself; just for a moment but the joy was priceless, too precious to be compromised for anything else.
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