chapter XVII
On the Bengali calendar, Durga Puja is largest holiday, followed by Kali Puja. It usually appears in October and is somewhat analogous to Halloween in America. Kali is the dark goddess [“Kali,” with a long “a,” refers to a black woman and is distinct from Kali, short “a” - pronounced, “koli” - who is a black man that is said to be the evil force behind the degraded age in which we are currently living. Sort of a Hindu ‘Satan’] and she is quite fearsome to behold. Garlanded with skulls and torn limbs, carrying numerous weapons in her many hands, and accompanied by witches, she is said to be pacified by drinking blood.
Thousands of Ma Kali deities are found throughout the city during this time of year. They all are on display for Their worshipers in temporary bamboo and cloth pandals and then are taken to the Ganga to be submerged when the holiday is finished.
This year we are in for a treat; our youngest aunt, nicknamed Tumpa [pictured above cutting her chest], is throwing a big puja.
Dressed in our finest, we head outside and hop in a taxi. Shilpi looks positively radiant in her patterned sari. In fact, she looks better than on our wedding night. (The fact that she doesn’t look green with nausea tonight certainly helps.) I refuse to wear the beautiful Panjabi that Tumpa pishi so kindly gave to me because Baba is wearing his, which just happens to be identical. Figuring we’d look a too much like queers, I opt for a simple western-style shirt.
Tumpa Pishi greets us with her characteristic enthusiasm and presents Shilpi with a nice pink sari. She is fasting today but doesn’t seem to ever run of steam while supervising a flurry activities.
On the ground floor of Tumpa Pishi’s apartment there is a life-size deity of Ma Kali and the priest is quite busy chanting mantras and ringing bells. We are offered a vegetarian dinner from a table set up at the entrance to the building. Gathering seats into a circle, the adda begins.
Everyone has come. I mean everyone. Some friends that haven’t been seen in decades arrive and every time one appears, the joyous occasion is cranked up a notch. Just as we are as content as we can possibly be surrounded by our family enjoying good conversation with a plate of warm luchis [fried bread] and alu dum [a simple potato preparation] balanced on our laps, along comes a face that our eyes have not had the pleasure of beholding in many years and our satisfaction is elevated that extra bit which makes such a holiday so memorable.
“But these go to eleven,” I can hear Spinal Tap’s Nigel Tufnel declare as he gestures towards his 100-watt Marshall heads. Tonight I know what he means.
There are basically two groups present, the older crowd and the younger. I always prefer to hang with the younger crowd, although my age is somewhat in the middle. Many of our cousins are here including Tumpa Pishi’s elder son who has just arrived from New Delhi. Bittu is a great, level-headed kid whose company I truly appreciate. I am all too happy to see him. He has an endearing habit of calling everyone “Boss,” which, out of any other mouth, would annoy me to no end, but when Bittu calls me “Boss,” I somehow feel pleased. His younger brother, Babaji, has such a plethora of school friends parading in and out that I can barely keep up with all of their names.
Students of Calcutta’s famous South Point school, these are the cream of the City’s youth. None are from the serious money that sends its children to boarding schools in exotic locals, but all are excellent students whose parents prefer to keep them at home. Hundreds, if not thousands of these terrific kids are produced from South Point as if they have some kind of processing plant that churns them out of an iron mould. They refer to graduating classes as “batches,” which is all too fitting a name. I wonder if they are stamped “Made in Calcutta” somewhere on their bodies.
As the conversation comes around to the inevitable topic of sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll, I offer a story that takes place at a concert of a band with whom I am sure no one is familiar, so I am not sure if I will mention it, but decide to try anyway;
“Have you ever heard of…. the Grateful Dead?” I ask incredulously.
“JERRY!” comes the choral response. Fists are raised high into the air.
I take that as a “yes,” and finish my story.
Noticing that one boy, Subhaiyu, is wearing a t-shirt that simply says, “Rock and Roll” I strike up a conversation with him. His friend, Crispy - short for Krishnendra (“My name can be translated as “Dark Side of the Moon” he boats) is also seriously interested in rock music and the two are happy to have a old fan from America to gossip with tonight. I inform them that I am “Too old to Rock and Roll…”
“...and too young to die!” They respond in unison. They enjoy my stories about the many rock concerts I had attended in my youth.
“Oh my God!!!!” Subhaiyu would exclaim while holding his hands to his face like that annoying kid in “Home Alone.”
“I can’t believe you actually saw Black Sabbath!”
Although no alcohol is present, I can smell the liquor on his breath.
Shilpi is clearly uncomfortable in Bababji’s room with all of the South Point kids, so she excuses herself to sit downstairs next to Ma. Most of the weekend she keeps her mouth shut as her Bangladeshi accent is so out of place. Or maybe to hide her teeth. Either way it is for the best.
I have to admit that I am feeling some great affection for these kids. They are Calcutta’s finest. Polite, intelligent, fluent in English, and cultured, it’s hard to not to like them. To me they are exactly like my little brothers and sisters and we happily pass our time together. We head to the roof intermittently to blow off fireworks including home-made tubri, a kind of clay pot stuffed with gun powder that blows sparks high into the night.
Subhaiyu and Crispy attach themselves to me like leaches. Every so often Subhaiyu does his Home Alone impersonation (“Oh my God!”) and I wonder how he’s getting more and more drunk although I have yet to see so much as a drop of liquor anywhere.
Tonight’s program is somewhat unique as the main Puja is at midnight followed by another early morning one at 3:00 AM. We all have committed ourselves to staying for the complete line-up.
Around midnight, we all head upstairs. While the others blow off fireworks, Shilpi and stick to the other side of the roof and pace back and forth while talking, enjoying the sensations as our bare arms lightly rub against each other’s. Firecrackers, bottle-rockets, and chocolate bombs light up new moon sky as the sizzle of Babaji’s home-made tubris is clearly audible from our side of the roof.
It’s a romantic night by any standards. Even the air on the roof feels cool despite the high temperatures and humidity. Walking to and fro with my beautiful new bride, I am in heaven, happier than I have been in years. I keep an eye on the door as people are occasionally coming and going. When no one is present, I take Shilpi’s hand in my own and proclaim my undying love for her.
Stopping for a moment, she looks deeply into my eyes and assures me;
Tomar sate naroke zabo.
“I would follow you to hell,” she assures me.
I promise Shilpi that we will find a way to register our marriage soon. She seems pleased but I can see that she is still worried about it.
Boro bapar’ta ki? Amader biye hoy nei?
“What’s the big deal? Aren’t we married?”
Proman’ta ki?
“What’s the proof?” She asks while thrusting her hand out emphatically, her palm facing upwards as if the receive some document.
Not only has Tumpa Pishi’s elder son come from New Delhi but her ex-husband has also come from Bangladesh, where his job has taken him. He stands before us telling many stories late into the night about the customs of that Muslim-dominated country. He explains about Ramadan, the Muslim holy month and how everyone fasts the entire day, breaking fast at night fall. The restaurants are all closed and nothing is available to eat outside of a few hotels in the capitol which only serve tourists and non-Muslims.
After being married to Shilpi, I am so immersed in the Bengali language that I am no longer conscious of when the conversation changes from Bengali to English. Educated Bengalis mostly speak “Benglish” anyway. Tonight Shilpi is probably the only one here who doesn’t know any English at all, besides the hired help.
“Before sunrise, everyone has a light breakfast called suhoor in Arabic…”
“What do you eat?” His sister-in-law asks. She is married to his younger brother and has come tonight attractively dressed a beige sari and a large maroon bhindi on her forehead.
“A widow from down the hall brings suhoor to me every morning.”
Glancing sidelong at her friends and rocking her head side-to-side ever so slightly, she comments,
Bhusta parccho?
“Are you getting this?”
Haa, ekta Bobita payacche!”
“Yeah, he found himself one Bobita!” Comes the response, referring to a famous Bangladeshi actress.
Ekta! Keno char’te pabe na?
“One, why not four!”
By the three AM puja, Baba and one of his brothers both fall asleep on the mattress laid out by the puja area. As the priest begins chanting the myriad mantras necessary to appease the goddess, Baba and his brother’s snores are so loud that they threaten to drown out the Sanskrit incantations. A crowd of us watches, suppressing our laughs as the snoring seems to escalate along with the crescendo of the priest’s chanting.
At one point, Tumpa Pishi calls for her ex-husband to come and take the blessings of the goddess. Approaching the dais, he neglects to take off his shoes:
“Are you a Muslim now? Take off your shoes!” His ex-wife scolds good naturedly. Over and over again she berates him for his breeches of etiquette, repeatedly calling him a Muslim.
Coming up to the platform on which the deity is standing, he reverentially approaches with his hands together, raised high in salutation. His mood turns almost comically serene and with closed eyes, he offers his pranams…. in Arabic?
“as-salaam aleikum.”
At the end of the ceremony, Tumpa Pishi wants to offer some her own blood to the goddess, citing that her mother had done the same on many occasions. Unable to find a razor blade or pin anywhere, the priest removes the tin cutter from Ma Kali’s hand and Tumpa Pishi proceeds to cut her chest with it while barely grimacing. How she has managed to put on such a grand affair, fasting the entire time, and then cut her own flesh to offer her blood is beyond me.
After the puja has finished, I stayed behind for a minute while everyone else filed out. I notice a slip of paper on the platform that was written for the priest. It had the names of all of Tumpa Pishi’s family members listed so that they could be read out during the ceremony. Although my Bengali is not perfect, I easily note that at the top of the list is the name of Tumpa Pishi’s ex-husband.
After a light breakfast, we return home, sorry that such a blissful night has to end. Before leaving, I ask Shilpi if she likes our family. She answers positively, so I follow up by asking who is the best.
Shilpi motions towards Tumpa Pishi;
O bishon bhalo.
“She’s very nice.”
I collect Shipli’s new pink sari that Tumpa Pishi gave her and make my way over to our host. I thank her for such a wonderful evening and she humbly responds,
“Don’t thank me, thank God. She arranged everything.”
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