Pujo

It is that time of the year again. I wonder what is with this particular time of the year that my heart still flies out of the window like a balloon as it used to ten years ago. I would not do math then and I cannot for the love of God concentrate on my work now.

There is something mysteriously romantic about those bamboos being bored into the footpaths cordoning off pedestrians from flooding the streets. It is that time when the city dolls up like the bride, and the people come out in their best finery for four days of being caught up in the frenzy of festive joy.

Durga Pujo is here. Today is Panchami and from tomorrow this city is going to live up to its carnivalesque best rising above the fumes of the two-stroke autos, political colours, shabby buses and broken dreams. For people who call it the choking city, you are not invited. But that is just a way of speaking. I notice this striking similarity between the Pujo with it's authentic city flavour and one of my favourite places, Jadavpur University (JU). It has an all embracing quality which is unique to it. I have known many people who crib about the city, and maintain they would be happier in any other shithole than here, but come Pujo they are the same people who are at the fringes of the whirlpool of festivities more eager than anyone else to be at it's epicentre.

It is quite a similar story in case of JU. I have known numerous people who think only dopers and drunkards are on the campus, but they are the same people who die to be part of it. Since they cannot by right of a student they enter in various forms. They may be the wannabes at the canteens, the pseudo-hippie on the grounds or the painter/poet on the bridge. We do not have any qualms in embracing them and the sundry as one of us. The broad outlook which allows us to gracefully treat people of alternative sexual preferences and poets muttering to themselves makes us accept them too.

The Pujo brings everyone together. The pallette is just one colour on those days.

I do not know the logic behind all those mad moments, the often senseless laughter that we indulge in. What I do know is that I would not leave the city on those days for the greatest treasures in the world. An article by my friend Insiya actually prompted me to write this. In the article she says she doesn't quite know what is this madness all about. When I initially read it i was stumped. How can someone be living in Calcutta and be aloof of such a major event. It is like going to the Olympics and not knowing about it's history.

Then again i questioned myself was I not caught up by the excitement of the games, the taut tension of the sportsmen when I did not know about Heracles? Yes, I thought, of course I was just as excited. It is true that knowing more gave a certain framework or fabric to the excitement, but it was similar.

The same with the Pujo I think. I cannot claim i understand the near manic frenzy in which the days go by, or why I love to hear the mahalaya at 4 in the morningwhen I cannot understand half the things said, or why I am taken in by the majestic pandals and sore my legs by walking from one to the other. I do not understand... I do not think I ever will.

I love the Pujo but. It's manic traffic, teeming people, totally unhygeinic food, queues in front of restaurants, jammed cell phone networks, not finding a friend in a ground full of strange crowds when she's just a stone's throw from me, passing comments of fashion disasters of the year. Yes I live in a shithole, as some think, but that's life. Life is not about driving around in an A.C. car and looking at people from behind the safe confines of glass. it is about getting on the road, walking with the people, the dirt and grime of rickshaw and smoke of the scooters, and dingy roads and people and more people.

And it is at these times that I realize that the Pujo is what you make of the Pujo. It can be a religious sojourn where you are one with the almighty. It can be a welcome vacation from work. It can be some lazy days for gluttony and debauchery. It can be a non-stop party. It can be discovering yourself and people you know, or you think you know. It is a time to think, rethink or may be not; may be it is time to just relax, lay back and let your heart take control.

It is time, Panchami, just this night and the festival begins. Cheers!

Tribulations of a child

Power relations in a house hold take strange and often surprising dimensions. My latest discovery is the wardrobe.

Now mothers have a general characteristic in thinking that their children are their property. And funnily enough this sense of ownership transcends unto their kid’s belongings as well. They absolutely love the institution of deciding what the child will wear, how they will wear and how they will carry themselves.

“ The green belt does not go with the blue jeans”

Ma, it’s called colour blocking, like contrasting, a colour stands out.. that way. Please don’t make me wear that obnoxious leather thing.

“Tie your hair with the hairband”

Ma, I want to keep my hair open

“Put oil on your hair”

Please Ma, oil stinks, I’d rather shampoo

“This skirt is too short; I told you the bigger size fits you”

Ma, this is the correct size

Etcetera

Often have I waited for myself to grow up so that the oversized Tee my mom bought would fit me. More often than not, by the time it would fit me, my mother would decide that either it’s too old, or it is discoloured and should be thrown away.

So when the tattered jeans were in fashion I would wear ironed and clean ones. When stilletoes were the cool thing to do, they were just too these-are-worn-by-grown-up-ladies-in-parties! And now that flats are in fashion she wonders why I have lost interest in stilletoes.

Just yesterday my mother and I sat down at night to do a Pujo-is-here-so-lets-get-rid-of-old-clothes cleaning of my wardrobe. She wants to throw away the pajamas in which I get the most comfortable sleep. Ma, they are my sleeping clothes, I do not have to look like a princess in them. She wants to throw away my school uniform, on which a lot of..ahem.. unparliamentary stuff had been written by friends on the last day of school. She thinks it is all trash.

And a hideous red skirt is something she thinks I will wear again. Then there is this brown flowery shirt she had bought which I think I wore one and a half times( once she forced me too, and second time I complained that the tag was itching near my neck so my dear dad politely allowed me to change).

My ,mother is the most sweetest sweet. She does not want me to wear torn clothes, so she quietly donates a pair of jeans which I had toiled an entire afternoon to cut and design. What she doesn’t understand is her and my definitions of style and comfort and very very different.

What double standards man.

Why do men think they have the right to take all the decisions? No matter how much the world progresses they will always think they should rightfully have the last word.

They pretend to be broad minded and happy that women are doing well in their respective careers but they can never stomach the fact that some women have a mind of their own. Women can also take decisions, they also work, and they also feel tired. But for men they will remain the trophy wife who they can show off to family and friends.

You might think you are not chauvinistic, but you are so naturally, it's part of your make.

It is difficult for a girl to be dolled up all the time. But you expect that. If a girl wears specs she is a geek and too dorky for you eyes. But if a man is wearing specs it is a mark of intelligence. If a girl has put on a lot of make-up she is “loose” and “easy to get” and if she is dressed shabbily you will call her un-cool. Then again its fine for a guy to dress shabbily, that’s cool.

You think it is a woman’s right to pursue a career of her choice but when she does it you would like to give the approval. Why this patriarchal mentality? Isn’t this what independent minded intellectuals fought for?

If the child has to go for an excursion the school requires the father’s consent, why? Is the mother any lesser as a parent?

If this is how the world is to be, I guess the Elizabethan England was better. At least there women knew they were treated as lesser. But at least they made chivalrous men back then.