Women not crackers make Diwali special

Take out the woman of the house from festivities and it becomes a cold, empty house waiting to be filled with happy laughter. 

A major cluster of our cherished childhood memories hover lovingly around festivals. And it was our parents, their extra efforts that made these celebrations so special for us. Add to it the innocence that didn’t count calories, fret about the logistics and then complain about the stress, these occasions were the most looked-forward-to. 

Festivals for most of us were not just limited to the day of celebration. Like any well scripted story it built up over time, kept us on tenterhooks, made us impatient with excitement before reaching its crescendo.

It would start with anticipation of goodies which would give an extra spring to the steps we took. Unlike the hedonism of the present that eats out twice a week and shops till it drops, our past had few excesses. Our parents belonged to the era that believed in rationing material pleasures. So eating-out, a new dress and shoes were would wait for special occasions. If we had just watched a movie, stopping for ice-cream on our way back was a sure shot way of corrupting our souls beyond repair.

It was during festive occasions that our parents loosened up a bit. We were allowed second and third helpings of sweet treats and a few more when Mom was not looking. Almost all of them were homemade and invariably made by her. She’d spend long hours in the kitchen while we danced around her like excited puppies.

Is there anything in this world that tastes better than fresh off the griddle malpua dunked in a degchi of sticky sugar syrup?

When she was not busy in the kitchen, she was engrossed in making alpona on the floor with ground rice paste while I’d squat beside her and watch her in mesmerised silence. Each festival we celebrated had her distinctive stamp –from the 14 diyas she lit on chhoti Diwali, to the bhog she made during Lakshmi Puja, to the paste of turmeric and mustard oil she’d keep for us in the bathroom to slather ourselves with in honour of the beauteous and talented Saraswati. Durga Puja meant weeks of preparation for the many competitions that were held at the pandal during the Pujas.

When you are ten, all you want to do is make your Maa happy. So you recite poetry with emotions you don’t comprehend, participate in dance-dramas with your face caked with ghastly make-up, play musical chairs even though you hate it, all in an attempt dazzle her friends and relatives with your unimaginable talent.

Understanding Mr Kapoor

“There is in every madman a misunderstood genius whose idea, shining in his head, frightened people, and for whom delirium was the only solution to the strangulation that life had prepared for him”
Antonin Artaud

How does one define genius? An individual who doesn’t speak the language of the ordinary, someone whose vision defies stereotypes. Who decides the extraordinary? A bunch of book critics...art gallery owners…stuffy academicians! In a society that enshrines the ordinary, how does one understand a person whose vision is beyond the scope of the ordinary? It takes another man of exceptional capability, to appreciate and fathom a genius. A painter who unleashes his soul on the canvas, a scientist who challenges the conventional, the actor who refuses to compromise, musicians who strike an unknown note… Isaac Asimov, Sylvia Plath, Joyce, Kafka, Bach….the examples are far too many.

Stories of individuals who lived a misunderstood, tortured life, battling polarized opinions and dying in penury. Their work discovered and celebrated later – recognition earned posthumously. It took a Salieri to understand Mozart (and Salieri was Mozart’s most bitter rival). Did you know Einstein won the Nobel not for his path-breaking theory of relativity but for his little known photoelectric effect? Why? Because at that point of time it was beyond the comprehension of many – only two fellow scientists Silberstein and Eddington, understood its far-reaching potential. Ironic isn’t it?

I was going to witness the work of a maverick artiste – revered as God by many and labeled pretentious by a few. It is tough to define Anish Kapoor – an architect, a sculptor extraordinaire, an installation artiste. Hailed as one of the most influential sculptors of his generation, he is unfortunately mostly unknown in the country of his origin. I hadn’t heard of him, till he was invited to exhibit some his iconic work in the cities of Mumbai and Delhi.





It takes time to warm up to Mr Kapoor’s works – you don’t start oohing and aahing instantly. Just like the movie “Inception” where you took twenty minutes before you even started grasping Nolan’s world of dreams within dreams. Anish Kapoor dwarfs you with his vision, it’s so expansive. His architecture defies convention – a foot bridge that looks like a bubble, a subway built like a large bulbous organism suddenly breaking into a void, spirals of nothingness. His work transcends architecture, sculpture and art. A void bored into a mountain, sculpture that blends fabrics with steel, a gigantic foghorn sitting on a coastline. Each piece taunts you with its absurdity. He presents his interpretation of universe through his gigantic pieces. His shapes evoke images of the human body. Illusion is central to his work.





His fascination with the void is evident in most of his works, a hole of nothingness with you at its brink – terrifying yet fascinating. A polished stainless steel “S Curve” that almost seems alive! He loves playing with single, solid colours – vivid plashes of yellow, the deep purple that creates an illusion of depth , the vibrant crimson that so defines our culture. His art is typified by the absence of edges – it’s flamboyant, smooth, you have this unbearable urge to touch and feel the texture, caress its smooth lines.

Of what started as a Am I wasting my time here ended with me feeling blessed to have witnessed art this extraordinary. In Kapoor’s words…Earlier it was me trying to tell the world what I’m saying and now it’s other’s clamoring to tell me what my work is telling them!

I don’t think I’ve reached a stage where I can interpret Anish Kapoor. All I can say is, only in letting go do we find our true selves. You never know what hidden gem you’ll unearth. Good, bad or ugly, just embrace it with an open heart.

Our creative genius is the fountainhead of originality. It fires our compulsion to evolve. It inspires us to challenge norms. Creative genius is about flying to new heights on untested wings. It is about the danger of crashing.

~~ Gordon MacKenzie

The Unbong Bong

I think I look like a Bengali even though I don’t have the trademark lush, long hair and am not exactly doe eyed. I definitely don’t sound like one. And no, I never wear a red bordered sari and don’t get into paroxysms every time I hear Robindro Shongeet. Sometimes people are surprised when they come to know I am from the cultural hotpot of the East.

I am a “Probashee Bangalee” which translated means a Bengali who has never lived in Bengal. As a Bengali born and brought up in Punjabified- Delhi, where people think India begins and ends with North India, I am often confronted with stereotypes. People assume all of us were born clutching a fish and have it morning, noon and night. The Bhadrolok’s love for fish is legendary but unfortunately I am not one of them. Neither am I a big fan of rice. My unconventional preferences made my Mum fret incessantly. She would often prophesize doom for me – what will happen to you if you get married into a conventional Kolkata family! Well, I did get married to a true blue bong who loves his fish as much as he does his Strauss but don’t startling contrasts make the best unions?

Although I love Kolkata, a city that has a soft corner for its three eph’s - Phish, phootball and phriends, where it’s diligent citizens express their displeasure by going on strikes - I do feel like “an Englishman in New York”, during my visits there. Most of its populace has an opinion on everything, argues with passion and is a closet revolutionary. The bhodrolok loves breaking into Keats at the drop of a hat and every adda is interspersed with a soulful rendition of Nazrul geeti or Robindro shongeet. And you are the only silent one in the room sitting with a silly, ignorant grin.

Not that it’s any better in Delhi. Tell a new acquaintance that you are a Bengali and you can bet your chhola bhaturaa that the first reaction you’ll get is Roshogulla. Yes, we invented this sugary dumpling but we invented many more legendary mishtees too. So why not a ledikeni, shondesh or chamcham? Didn’t William Cowper say” Variety is the spice of life”. And if I hear anyone say “ Aami tomake bhalobaashi” again, you can bet your sorry ass that am going to stuff your face with a treacherously bony Hilsa. Yes, just saying it feels good and dear readers please consider this a manual on what not to say when you meet a Bengali.

On Karvachauth, when most of your colleagues are decked up like Christmas trees and avoid the mere mention of water and grub, you standout like a sore thumb in your unadorned avatar and almost feel guilty glugging water from your bottle. I had to patiently clarify to my students that, yes I am married, no my husband is not planning to dump me and yes I do wish a long life for him. Once at the bus stop when one of my students wanted to know why am not wearing bangles, I told him with a straight face “In our culture the men fast for their wives”. He actually believed me. I feel like an alien when my friends excitedly exchange “kuttu ka atta” recipes during Navratra. But then, I feel out of place during the rest of the year as well- when they discuss Big Boss antics, Khatron Ke Khiladi, Mere Baap ki shaadi (is there such a soap? If not, producers please take note).

So what does that make me? A confused Bengali! A neither here neither there species! Or a Bengali proud of her roots even if she is a stranger to most of it. For me it’s a process of constant learning and unlearning. The other night as the husband read out one of Tagore’s poetry to me, we just couldn’t stop marveling at the timelessness of his works. My mother often gushes about Sunil Gangopadhay’s work and doesn’t think too highly of my choice of Indian authors who write in English. But does that make all Bengalis literary geniuses, just like we assume that southern states are home to mathematical wizards? Not really. So the next time if I hear someone say, you must be good singer no, most of you are …. that I owe my writing skills to my Bengali gene pool ,I will insist on reading out the entire Gitanjali to you in a quivering, emotion choked voice. Just like a typical Bengali!
Dedicated to Radhakanta, whose "fishy" enquiries prompted this post.

Growing Up With Delhi

Even though I am a true blue Bong, I hardly had any relatives in Kolkata, till I got married. My Dad is from Lucknow, Maa from Kanpur and I was born and brought up in Delhi.

For someone who has spent a little over four decades in the city, I have seen Delhi metamorphose from a laid-back Punjabi by nature city to a bustling, chaotic Punjabi at heart metropolis. Oh, what a transformation it has been- whether for better or for worse, is matter for another long debate.

As a child, recreation would mean boating in boat club, followed by ice cream at India Gate and watching performances at the city’s many cultural spots. And we watched movies in large, single screen cinema halls. Chanakya was meant for English movie buffs. I remember the time, when my parents had gone to watch The Exorcist at Priya. Their ride back home, well past midnight, on that lonely stretch in Vasant Vihar, was way more scary than the movie. And now Vasant Vihar is a constant cacophony of blaring horns and frayed tempers.

Karol Bagh was THE place to shop and South Delhi had yet to acquire its glamorous avatar. I had my first taste of butter chicken, Delhi’s national bird at a restaurant in Daryaganj. I hated it – found it too sour for my taste. Delhi was all about Mughlai and Punjabi Khana and if you wanted to try something exotic, it was the posh 5 star hotels you headed to. Does anyone remember Akbar hotel, one of Delhi’s earliest five star establishments? it shut shop long time ago. All I can recollect is the colourful chains of bangles that would hang from its ceiling. I would watch in fascination at the light dancing off those colourful pieces with my head craned up, my fingers dug deep inside the sofa. Eating was not a priority then.

Pujo Madness

I spent the last weekend getting stuck in a nasty traffic snarl, staring soulfully at cars, buses and fellow sufferers, only to land at a place teeming with almost 3/4th of Delhi’s bright, shiny population decked up in their festive gear. Packed with cars, the air resonating with a curious cacophony of excited chatter, impatient horns and beats of the dhaak… Overdressed, over enthused crowds, moving at a hectic pace, eager and hungry to soak in all that the evening had to offer... Just another typical Durga Pujo evening in bustling Chittaranjan Park, the much touted mini Kolkata of Delhi. 

But this what Durga Pujo does to you, it makes you defy logic and let go of your sanity. You drape yourself in your finest saris, walk endlessly in your impossibly high heels and strangely you don’t mind the discomfort, the jostling crowds, the heat and the dust. It is as if you have been seized with this invisible energy. You patiently stand in serpentine queues, get busy checking each other out surreptitiously, no jostling, no pushing, only to catch a glimpse of the superbly crafted pandals and Maa Durga’s protimaa. And then with sweat-streaked backs you make a beeline for the food stalls. Devour platefuls of oily biryani, take a far from delicate bite of that fish chop and happily slurp masala chuski! Ahh… divine.