Terracotta Poems

This summer I went to Shantiniketan in West Bengal, in Birbhum district. On my way a few km away from Shantiniketan  my eyes alighted  upon two gorgeous terracotta Shiva temples, situated side by side in the middle of a cluster of nondescript houses. They took my breath away. I had heard about the terracota temples of Bishnupur, more towards the north-west of Bengal, but to see these masterpieces at almost my doorstep was like receiving an unexpected and delightful gift. Shibu-da, whose taxi we had hired to take us to Shantiniketan, told us that there were terracota temples around Shantiniketan , and that he could take me to visit them if I liked.

And it is thanks to Shibu-da that I could see these temples.  I could not have de niched them on my own , first of all because though I am a Bengali, I moved out from Bengal in my childhood, and secondly because even many Bengalis living in Bengal have not seen  them. They are off the beaten track, in small villages, visited by few outsiders. Shibu-da, a soft spoken, gentle person did not only take me there but also showed me interesting bits of sculpture and filled me in with their history. If you ever go to Shantiniketan and want someone to show you around I would definitely recommend him.

 Now I'm not a historian and my geography is rather poor, but these temples are in a 50 km radius around Shantiniketan. I'm putting them up as a feast for the eye,  and because they transport me to rural Bengal, where these magnificent temples in sleepy little villages, in the middle of a market place, on the roadside, are testimonies of kingdoms which have vanished in the corridors of time.

 

This five pinnacled Lakshmi Janardan temple built in 1846 is in Illambazar. When I saw it there was nobody in sight. It stood in solitary splendour beside the house of a zamindar (landlord), which was a ruin of  crumbling walls, with creepers and aerial roots snaking out from dark,  faceless windows.  

 

 I thought the orange shawl on the priest's shoulder and the orange dome of the temple was worth a photo. And there was this feeling of  timelessness. The temple priest going to worship the deity a hundred ago, fifty years ago, now….

 I almost missed this jewel on the roadside. As you can see it's half hidden by the bushes.  Its walls aren't as ornately sculpted as the other temples I visited. It stood out against the monsoon sky in pure-lined elegance.

 Can you spot my slippers in front of the temple? Yes I was there. It's an exquisite 17th century  Ram temple in Ghusuria    One has to see it from near to see the wealth of sculpted figures and the 

 detailed craftsmanship.   

                                                              

                                       

                         

I wondered who were the artists who had made these panels, and the king who had patronised them? I  looked around and saw a sleepy village, a cowshed a few metres ahead, a woman coaxing a calf to eat rice from her hands, and tried to imagine how the place may have been four centuries ago.

By now you must be getting tired of temples. After all our ancestors were particularly gifted in building them in all shapes and sizes from the north to the south, from the east to the west, and always as in life with the sacred and the profane existing side by side.   I'll just put up some of my favourite shots and let you imagine the backdrop.

Here's a drum player beating the drum for the dancer. Maybe he wants her heart to throb to the beat of his drum.

The musician seems above such worldly concerns. He's composing a song to his deity.

 The king's holding court. Does he have to issue judgement on a matter of great importance, or is he thinking about the gala event he's going to hold in his gardens the next full moon night, where the best dancer and musician will be awarded fifty gold mohurs each? What's that to the left? A dog supplicant?

And finally Krishna as a little child stealing butter, as Varaha Avatar rescuing the earth from the netherworld, and the cowherd of Vrindavan making the hearts of men and women dream to the melodies of  his flute.

             

 Arunima Choudhury

With Bintu in the Marketplace

Bintu in the marketplace

I went with Bintu to the market this afternoon;  Bintu riding the jakarta (a small Chinese  motorbike which has flooded the West African market) , and me me perched behind her. Bintou is Malian, from the Malinke ethnic group. She is married to Dominic a former French wine grower from the south-west of France, who has bought land around 40 km away from Bamako, beside a little village called Siby, surrounded  by rocky  hills.  They have built their house in keeping with the architecture of the land, round thatched cob huts in a stretch of land with  mango , shea , moringa and neem trees. It’s situated near a magnificent site, the arch of Kamadjan.

Bintou is always on the move, sweeping, cooking, chatting, joking. On hearing me marvelling over the superb view of this sinewy muscle of the mountain, cupping the blue sky she told me how it came into being.  According to legend, Kamandjan, the most valiant lieutenant of Soundiata Keita, the founder of the Mali empire, frayed a path for his troops through a massive and impregnable rock wall with a single stroke of his   sabre as a demonstration of his occult powers.

The arch of Kamadjan

Each Saturday there’s a market in Siby and the population of this little village swells in size with the influx of people from surrounding villages. I had heard about this market,  and since Bintu was going there to buy provisions for her guests I jumped at the opportunity to go with her. Bintu was born in Siby and has grown up here. I hoped that if I tagged  along with her I would be regarded less as a foreigner, or Tubabu, according to the local lingua. Mostly children but sometimes adults too point you out with the exclamation Tubabu and break  into laughter.  Of course the ghostly appearance of Tubabus can also inspire terror in the heats of children, especially the very young ones,  who promptly burst into tears.

 The market place is about 2 km away from their land  Bintu drove down a winding, uneven dirt road, flanked by huts, children, chicken, men having tea, fields of sugarcane and corn , calling out greetings to every second person. When we reached the tar road we came across a line of Sotramas, the top loaded with goods, calabashes, velssels sacks of rice, coal, and onions, which people had bought and were now carrying back to their villages. There were others who placed their trust in more traditional transport and made their way back in donkey carts, the little donkey bravely pulling the cart and all that it contained. 

Sotrama: A small van used in Mali as public transport

When we reached the market place Bintu parked her jakarta in front of her cousin’s shop , (in Mali , every other person is a cousin, brother, sister),  and  set out on foot, stopping ever so often to launch into the customary  greetings.

I ka kene? How's your health?
N ka kene. My health's fine.
Somogow bedi? How's your family?
Torosite.  Fine.
I bara be cogodi? How's your work? 

It can go on and on with different permutations and combinations, depending on your familiarity with the person, your mood, the person’s status in society.  and end with blessings;  Ala ka tile here caya , for example, which means, may God see to it that you have a good day.  But my limited understanding of Bambara, the national language of Mali allows me to translate only this much.

I think in the world of trade, the innovativeness of human exchange and material wealth is proportionately  inverse .The wealthier the country  the more codified is the relation between the buyer and seller. There’s a fixed price. You pay it and go away with your ware. In rich countries bargaining is considered to be in bad taste. But in countries where every purchase is an opportunity for negotiations, the exchange between the buyer and seller can be an art by itself. Mali moreover is extraordinarily rich in the domain of banter and repartee.

Bintu stopped to buy vegetables and with each vendor there was a dialogue which went  beyond  a mere discussion about money.

Here’s a conversation with an egg plant seller:

“How much are your eggplants ?”

“ 200 cfa for 3.”

“But my grandma over there is selling them for 100 cf.”

“You’re a liar, “ quipped the eggplant vendor.

“No, I’m not, retorted  Bindu,

“Yes, you are and if you don’t stop lying your husband will leave you. ”  

“No he won’t,” said Bintu ,” and even if he does , in the afternoon itself there’ll be another man waiting for me. I may not be as pretty as you are, but I have a very good sense of humour  And men really appreciate cheerful women.

The pretty eggplant  seller

The vendor could not but be softened by this answer. The eggplants were bought and both the seller and buyer parted in  high spirits.

In another conversation with a seller of bananas, the exchange was less cordial but as vivacious.  The seller of bananas exhorted Bintu saying that she should not bargain, because she was the wife of a white man and it is well known that the white man is the source, or the origin  of money in the world. Bintu not to be stumped, retorted that the white man does not collect money strewn on the ground. He has to work hard to earn it. I don’t think the woman was convinced . She was sure fhat Bintu had captured the hen that lays golden eggs. However the negotiations were clinched with no hard feelings and a plastic bag full of bananas.

I tagged along, the typical tourist, taking photos with my phone, asking Bintu time and again for explanations. 

Soap

Young girl posing for a photo

Dried fish

At the end of the market trip our hoard consisted of

bananas, eggplants, tomatoes, a small pumpkin, meat, onions, butter, bread, an incense burner in the shape of a pot, blue liquid in tiny plastic sachets for whitening clothes,  two pagnes of bright orange and blue (a pagne is a measurement for cloth used in West Africa, consisting of two metres), and an ornament made up several strands of white beads.  

Women in Mali  use a pagne like a wraparound  and buy three pagnes to make a complet, which is a long skirt and a tunic. The rope of beads is wound  around the waist, to accentuate the slenderness of the waist and make the sashaying gait of a woman even more alluring. However the pagnes and the waist ornament  were my purchases;  the former to make cushion covers and the latter to use as a necklace. I do not have the audacity to tie the bead ornament around my middle aged waist and sashay down the road.

With Bintu’s sidebag and my backpack  stuffed with  goodies,  we headed back towards the house. “Bintu,”  I asked, “don’t you miss this when you are in France?”  By this I meant of course the greetings, the bantering, the exchange of energies, which extends a half an hour trip to one and a half!  “Yes,” of course said Bintu, “very badly.” One of my friends in France told me during the last  holidays, “Bintu I remember you had told me that on a Saturday , if you were in Mali you would be greeting every second person and they would be doing the same .” It reminded me a bit of Pondicherry, my hometown where every other person is a friend or an acquaintance, and meeting and greeting people are a part of living there.

Arunima Choudhury