COTTON

 

 

My childhood is intrinsically linked to the sight, feel and smell of cotton  saris. Synthetic saris were not in fashion those days. So there were Tangail or handloom cotton saris for home use, washed and rewashed, soft, smelling faintly of soap and sun. And there were saris for going out, starched, stiff, which rustled when you moved.

There were also saris for doing household chores, stained with turmeric, damp with perspiration. I remember my mother and aunts in the kitchen in front of kerosene  or baked clay stoves, and later gas stoves, beads of sweat pearling their foreheads, staining the back and armpits of their blouses, wiping their foreheads, necks, and wet hands with their  anchol (the part of the sari which is draped over the shoulder and hangs till the hip or lower).

After they had finished cooking they had a bath and changed into a fresh set of underskirt, blouse and saris. The saris for home use were mostly striped, or unicolor, pale green , pink, yellow, violet with stripes at the ends, or with small and big checks. I have this picture of my ma fresh after  her  bath in front of  an oval  mirror. After lightly dusting her face with Pond’s talcum powder she opened her sindoor (red powder) box and with a small piece of metal , part of the kit , which is rounded and flattened  at one end , she drew a small red dot in the middle of her forehead. Tiny flecks of sindoor inevitably came loose and  speckled the bridge her nose . She then dipped the other end of the stick flattened horizontally into the sindoor and drew a thin red line in the parting of her hair. This was and is probably the daily ritual of many married women in Bengal.

In the evening, just before sunset women blew conches in front of tulsi  plants and offered their evening prayers.  Tulsi  a variety of basil is considered to be a sacred plant in India and even referred to as mother tulsi). The plaintive, nasal , resonance of conches rose and faded into the air .Women  usually changed into unbleached beige silk saris, reserved for this occasion.  I remember the feel of these saris, soft and heavy they smelt faintly of incense and of some undefinable comforting odour, perhaps that of the body of the wearer.   My youngest aunt, a fair, short, roundish woman  with a particularly devout husband performed this evening ritual regularly.

After the puja was over they changed back into their day sari, or sometimes into another sari which they would wear through the evening and the night. If there were guests coming home or if they were  going out anywhere it called for a change of sari and of blouse to match with the sari.

There must have been a mountain of clothes to wash  everyday! The size of a sari can vary from 5 to 9 metres. Then there were underskirts, blouses, tunics and dhotis or  pyjamas worn by the menfolk and children’s clothes to wash. The hands of the poor women who were employed to do the washing were disfigured due to endless hours of exposure to soap and water.  

Once a week however  Modon the dhobi/washerman came home to collect the washing of the entire joint family which he returned the week after. A short wiry man with curly hair in a thigh length tunic and a calf length dhoti he announced his presence in a loud voice. He went from family to family collecting clothes and distributing the ones he had washed, starched and ironed. He tied all the clothes in a big, white bundle which he slung over his shoulders and left . I was nine when I left my childhood home and took all this for granted. Now I ask myself how did he carry all the clothes? Did he sling them over the back of a donkey like the picture of the proverbial Indian washerman? Did he have a cycle? 

Arunima

I'm Krishna the dark-skinned snake-charmer

 This summer during my annual trip in India I went to Shantiniketan, and fulfilled my heart's desire to meet the Bauls of Bengal and record their songs. This was to a great extent possible thanks to Soumya-da, who also kindly put me up in his house, Jorabari. Laxman Das Baul, a lovely person and a fantastic singer and musician, touched me deeply with his renderings. Here's a song I take great pleasure in singing, thanks to him. I've translated the song to the best of my capacities, trying to convey the lilt and rhythm of the Bengali version. And I've uploaded the song on sound cloud for music lovers.

Laxman in his house, tuning his dotara

https://soundcloud.com/arunima-choudhury/amar-nam-kalo-krishno-bede

আমার ঘর বাড়ি নাই , সকল ঘরে বেরাই আমি সাপ ধরি বন জঙ্গলে হ্রদে, আমার নাম কালো কৃষ্ণ বেদে ।।  যত ঘর দেখ সকলি আমার,  সকল ঘরে আমার সমান অধিকার ।  আমি করি সাপের খেলা, দেখে কুলবালা,   গলার মোতিমালা খুলে দেই আমারে ।।   ডোরা, বোড়া, চিতি আর অজগর  কুশল করে ধরি অতি বিষধর।   আমি দেখি সাপের খরা , দিই ধুলোপড়া  তখন কুঁচে পরা সাপ ধরি অবলে ।।  নীলকণ্ঠ বলে শোন বলি রাই,  ওই বেদিয়ার বেসে তোমার কালো কানাই ।  তুমি দুর কর রোষ , হও হে সন্তোষ  তোমার হৃদি ভরা ধন ধর হে হৃদে ।।

I have no house to call my own, Yet I wander from home to home, I catch snakes, in woods forests and lakes, I’m Krishna, the dark-skinned charmer of snakes Every house you see is mine, I have equal rights in every house. The village women seeing me play with snakes, Gift me their pearl necklaces. The most venomous of snakes, I bend to my will . Boa, viper and krait,  I catch with skill.On their raised hoods, I sprinkle some dust. They wilt to the earth, And I hold them with ease. Says the blue throated one “listen o Radha, In the garb of the snake-charmer is your dark Kanhaiya.  Let go of your anger. Be at peace.   Embrace in your heart your heart’s bliss.

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

Landowner for a day

My father called me up yesterday and asked me if I could come over to his house because he had something to tell me. 

"What?" I enquired. 

The line was not very clear and I thought I heard him mumbling,"You have inherited land."

"What! Where?" I exclaimed. 

"In Bhagirathpur. But I can't talk about this over the phone. Come over as soon as you can."And he hung up. 

"Bhagirathpur," I muttered to myself. Bhagirathpur is the village of my grandparents in Bengal about 1,500 km away from Pondy,  if not more. I went there once with my mother and her distant cousin twenty years ago by means of a back-breaking bus journey, through a countryside of lush  green rice fields, stagnant ponds and little girls with sticks in hands calling out in high-pitched voices to herds of waddling ducks.  To know that I , Arunima Choudhury,  who has lived in rented apartments all my life,  own a piece of land,  be it in a remote village thousands of kilometers away , sent a shiver of pleasure coursing through my veins. 

I thought about the time I had spent there two decades ago.. We had stayed for a couple of days at my mother's cousin's place, a middle-aged man with a lovely wife and two teenage daughters. They lived in an enormous, rambling , broken down house, or rather in one portion of a conglomeration of houses bound to each other by a network of narrow alleys with mossy walls looming on either side. My uncle's portion consisted of two huge rooms, one immense courtyard and a kitchen where his wife cooked on a mud oven. The  toilet was outside, more of a huge pit than a toilet. 

In the evening there was the inevitable power cut and the flickering flames of the lanterns fought valiantly with the surrounding darkness by casting pools of dim, yellow light.  I remember sitting in the room, chatting with my cousins when the elder one told me, "Do you know this year after Durga Pooja when the idol was being carried on the boat to be immersed in the river tears coursed down her cheeks. She really did not want to leave us and go."

"No!"I exclaimed incredulously.

"Yes, "her younger sister added emphatically., "many people in the village saw her crying."

'Oh," I replied weakly. I did not want to contend with what they were saying. And somehow in the semi-obscurity of the room with the lanterns casting eerie shadows on the walls, it did not seem impossible.

My cousins took pains to show me around the village. As  I walked down the mud roads we were stopped at every street corner by curious old men sitting on the porch of their houses. "Who is she?",  they asked. "Where is she from?" The answer was she is our father's third cousin's daughter. And presto! I was slotted in their heads. "Aw, she is Rekha's daughter", or by virtue of the immense network of family connections, imprinted in their minds,  "She is Ananda's daughter, Kalipada's grand-daughter. It is to be noted that my parents were not born or brought up in the village. The questions were followed by a clinching phrase which indicated their satisfaction of having done away with my strangeness and found my rightful place in the village, " It is OUR blood which flows in her veins," they declared triumphantly. I felt like royalty, blue-blooded, my honourable ancestors kings and queens of yore. 

And now,  my father had told me,  I was landowner in Bhagirathpur. The same evening I went to see him.. "So what is it you told me over the phone? How come I own land in Bhagirathpur? How come nobody ever told me?" 

My father looked at me quizically and said, "Because you didn't own it. Your maternal great-grandfather bequeathed it  to your grandmother. When your grandmother died her children inherited the land. Your aunt and uncle have sold their portions and since your mother is dead,  you and your sister have inherited her part. It is upto you now to decide if you are going to sell it or not because a buyer has contacted us from Bhagirathpur. Your sister is willing to sell."

So in the morning I had got to know I had inherited land and in the evening I was already being solicited to sell it! Ilooked at my father blankly  and fired a series of questions:

"But why should I sell it?"

"How many acres of land?"

"What kind of land is it?"

"Who is the buyer?"

"I don't know what kind of land," my father replied," I have never seen it. I suppose it's agricultural land. It mustn't be much because the land was divided into three portions. The same buyer who bought the land from your uncle and aunt would like to buy the remaining plots."

"But I don't want to sell! " I retorted indignantly . 

"Why?" my father was astonished. "Do you plan to go and live in Bhagirathpur?"

I was stumped. I obviously did not plan to go and settle in Bhagirathpur. 

To drive the nail even further my father continued, "Anyway if you don't sell someone will come and occupy it illegally. Would you then be willing to enter into litigations?"

I could feel the sense of satisfaction of owning a piece of land in the countryside with rich, loamy soil, trees with their canopy of leaves, perhaps a pond and a broken down house thrown in as well,  leaking out of me. Before despairing completely, I asked belligerently, "How much? How much is he offering?"

"Twenty-five thousand."

"What?"I yelped.

"Yes, but don't worry. I told him that my daughters would not be willing to sell for such a low price, so he has agreed to fifty thousand."

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "But pa I wailed, here people in the countryside are selling one acre of land for fifty lakhs and even more." 

My father looked at me severely and said, "Pondicherry is Pondicherry and Bhagirathpur is Bhagirathpur. And anyway why are you being so greedy? Thank God instead for having been given this unexpected gift." 

Now I was truly silenced. I lay down my arms, blinked back my unshed tears and nodded meekly.

Afterwards back home, lying in my bed, the picture of a beautiful plot of grassy land rose before my eyes. I resentfully mumbled to myself, "However I have had the satisfaction of being landowner for a day. Nobody can take that away from me," then chuckled at the delightful irony of the situation.

Arunima