Bollywood's 'poster boys' making a comeback!

It rarely happens that the ‘first look’ of a film poster creates such a buzz — getting 7,800 ‘likes’, 2087 ‘comments’ and 926 ‘shares’ on a social networking site. But Sanjay Leela Bhansali seems to have managed to do just that with the hand-painted posters of his upcoming film Rowdy Rathore. A tribute to over-the-top action films of the 80s, the Faulad Ki Aulad poster almost instantly brings back memories of walls plastered with faces of angry action heroes in bold red brush strokes and nubile beauties oozing pink paint. Magical, dreamy (and usually huge!), these posters were the mash up of advertising, art and storyboard depiction, all rolled into one canvas.

Bollywood’s poster art came into its own in the 1930s under the studio system that employed artists to paint posters and banners. And, after the decline of the studios, this art was created by a network of painters, photography studios and billboard workshops.

It all started with the publicity artists going through the trial screening and zeroing down on the aspects that need to be highlighted. However, in many cases they were just given albums of random production stills and from there they would choose the right images and do the sketches based on those. The sketches were sent to the producer for approval and then began the work of imbuing life to the final posters through oil paints or gouache.

Apart from highlighting the central theme of the movie, great deal of attention was paid to present the actors and actresses in new avatars. Another visual strategy employed by the Bollywood artists was dictated by the audience’s taste for paisa vasool entertainment and an item in every square inch is what masala posters and billboards offered. Not content with showing off just the lead pair, it incorporated the character actors, the villains and the vamps replete with the background dancers, and the spaces in-between filled with throbbing vignettes of a sleek car-chase scene or a sexy dance number or an action-packed climax scene.

The colour schemes of these posters were distinct (though not too different). If red signified revenge or anger, blue was synonymous with evil and pink portrayed love. But, it was the traditional style of mixing the colours and creating unique shades that made these posters alive. Often, New painting techniques were invented to bring out the right emotions and the posters more dramatic. One such was painting with a knife to add textures and contours to faces thereby making the heroes appear more macho and rugged. In the case of the poster of Jis Desh Mein Ganga Behti Hai, the artist creates a peculiar Van Gogh-like quality through its brush strokes in order to reproduce the delirium of elm trees on the Gangetic plain. The psychedelic Andy Warhol-like poster of Bobby and the pointillist style poster of Zehreela Insaan are few examples of some brilliant use of technique in film posters. Even M F Hussain, regarded as the Picasso of India, started his career in Bollywood where he used to paint film divas like Kanan Devi and Durga Khote on giant sizeposters along with painting film sets.

In the 1970’s, when a fleet of young directors and actors moved away from Bollywood ‘commercial cinema’ to explore radical new themes, a new kind of no-frills approach in posters came into being.These minimalist style posters of the ‘art house cinema’ were often created by graphic designers and illustrators from outside Bollywood and one such instance is the booklet cover for Ardh Satya by cartoonist Manjula Padmanabhan.

In 1980s new photo-reproduction technologies arrived in India that could blow up smaller artworks to the size of a 30-by-40-inch poster with superior quality. Painted posters started getting replaced by photo collages which had minimal work for the painters and scissors became more important than paint brushes. But, even this was short-lived.

In the early 1990’s, computer aided graphics slowly started replacing photo-collages and with Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge, one of the first movie posters to use digital artwork, becoming as massive a hit as it did, photoshop made the paintbrush almost obsolete. Most artists had to clean their brush and palettes of the garish colours almost overnight and take up odd jobs or diversify by producing portraits of politicians and election hoardings.


However, in true Bollywood ishtyle, within a decade, hand-painted posters made a comeback. And, from huge billboards to forgotten stacks of some dilapidated closed studio to the walls of some of the most high-profile art galleries, the journey was no less dramatic.

Considered nothing more than just a vehicle of film promotion in Bollywood, these posters became coveted art in cities like Paris, Toronto, London and Berlin and almost like a ripple effect, India too slowly began to appreciate these as art form and initiatives began to revive it.

However, young entrepreneurs like Hinesh Jethwani, founder of Indian Hippy, believe that the beauty of film poster art should not be limited to an elite few and hence Indian Hippy came to existence two years back. “We wanted to present this art once again in front of people, albeit on a fresh canvas and a fair price,” says Hinesh.

Besides a line-up of very innovative and funky fashion accessories and small furniture and décor items such as hand-painted chairs and coffee tables, Indian Hippy offers unique custom painted film posters that allow individuals to bring their fantasy to life on canvas.

“Very few film poster artists remain in India who hasn’t given up the paintbrush entirely and I am glad to have found a few of them. Working with them is a continuous challenge. These billboard and poster artists were used to painting on supersized canvases with large brushes,” says Hinesh.

For Nida Mahmood, fashion designer, graphic artist and co-founder of New India Bioscope Co, which is a design conglomerate set up to revive the art and the artists of hand-painted Bollywood posters, it all started in 2009 while making a few mixed media frames inspired from the posters of Deewar. “While talking to my my business partner Raul Chandra, we suddenly had the same question, where have all these poster artists disappeared? With immense difficulty and several dead ends, we managed to find a few poster artists in their late 70s and 80s and convinced them to pass on their art to our generations. Initially unwilling, sceptical and cynical they agreed once we set up a corpus for them. We took a risk and made an attempt to bring film poster art, away from its usual hoardings, onto wearable garments.”

Her brand offers two lines. The affordable line consists reprints of digital works inspired from poster art, while the collector’s line comprises objects that are hand-painted by poster artists and include trunk tables, chairs, hand-painted jackets, tote bags etc. “I do see a huge change in the modern thinking. People are appreciative of the bygone era. It is just about presenting it to them and making them aware. Kitsch is an all pervasive word, which is not defined by filling in a handful of colours to an image downloaded from the internet. I find myself bringing kitsch and poster art together and the results are phenomenal,” says Nida.

“With quirky being the mantra of the day I feel that there is nothing more interesting and colourful than hand-painted posters. The best part about them is the fact that they can be used on almost anything ranging from cell phone covers to bed sheets to garments and even shoes,” says accessory designer Rohan Arora.

Rohan’s shoe line Naya Daur, that walked the LFW Winter/Festive 2010 ramps, had old Hindi film posters hand-painted on khadi, and chicken legs leather and became an instant hit. He has three poster artists working for him. “They are all very old today and doing odd jobs due to the digitalization of the art. One of them was pulling rickshaws in College Street, one of them working as a waiter in a roadside restaurant on Moulali and the third one was selling baby toys at the Park Circus traffic signal. Initially, it was very difficult to get them and then convince them to paint the posters on shoes instead of large canvasses. But when they did, the response was amazing,” says Rohan.

An ardent fan of Bollywood, hand-painted posters has always fascinated Rohan: “I think digital techniques are no match to brush and canvas. Painted poster brings out a lot more emotion and is far more original than a digital print. Every poster has a story of its own. Even two posters from the same film are different. And I guess it is due to this that a lot of new film directors are going back to hand -painted posters today.”

A current bunch of contemporary artists are also taking inspiration from poster art. Sharmistha Dutta’s ‘Yaadon Ki Baaraat’, which concluded this week in Delhi, was a tribute to the lost art of hand-painted posters, while Vinita Dasgupta’s ‘Bollywood Reverie’, which is on in the national capital till December 18, is a collection of paintings inspired by Bollywood and the posters. “I have presented it in a manner similar to western pop art but the theme very much belongs to the mainstream. I have used mixed mediums,” says Vinita.

Be it old art work discovered by some enthusiastic 'relic hunter' or the ones smelling of fresh paints, be it customised posters starring at you as Don or wearing Gabber on your boots, be it digital prints of old hand-painted posters or incorporating posters in digital art, or film directors going old-school again, it seems the fate of hand-painted posters is taking quite an interesting turn break ke baad!

The dream sellers of Calcutta

The feriwalas, on a sweltering afternoon, not only enticed women and children of the household with their goods, but also like magicians would cast a spell on them

Even with the monsoon being officially over, it is still raining at times and my favourite umbrella has a spike jutting out. For the last one week not a single repairwala could be spotted in the vicinity. It was Sunday morning, the best time to catch a repairwala or a feriwala. I sat myself by the window keeping a hawk’s eye and an owl’s ear on the street to grab one. One hour into the ordeal and suddenly realisation dawns: the Sunday soundscape has ceased to be what it was even four or five years ago.
There is no prabhat feri. The sound of Disney cartoons merging with old Hindi film songs and mythological serials only to be broken by an occasional “G-O-A-L” from the nearby football ground and the cacophony of a cricket match is no more. And the street that used to be abuzz with hawkers shouting on top of their voices to sell their products and services has faded making way for an eerie silence of a claustrophobic sophistication.
Yet, I could almost hear the voices:
“Aataa oyiiiiiiiiiiii...” whenever I would hear this scream, I would run to the verandah to catch hold of the custard apple (aata) seller but all I could see would be some old newspaperwala or some random hawker. To me it seemed the most surreal event on this planet. It seemed nobody else but me could hear the custard applewala’s shrill loud cry. But Ma never took this seriously. Older people never take children seriously. Not until one hot summer morning, when Ma caught me running from one window to another trying to spot the fruit vendor once again. “Certainly, this is not the season for custard apples!” But I was not convinced. I made her listen carefully: “Of course you can hear his shout! Aaataaa oyiiiii... it is loud enough!” And then she bursts out laughing: “Of course it is loud enough and it says “Purono khata boi’! It is the chap who buys old newspapers and books.” But, even after so many years I am not absolutely convinced.
Feriwalas or hawkers selling glass bangles, ice-lollies, plastic dolls, balls and cameras, Kashmiri shawls, mangoes, fish, jasmine garlands, mattresses, sweets, brooms and dreams were an integral part of the streets and the soundscape of the city till a few years ago. Every house would have their set of fixed feriwalas who would pay a visit to the household just when you ‘need’ them.
Ma would often tell stories of the Magnolia ice-cream vendors, the bel phoolwalas and the chanachurwala who was so ecstatic to have extracted some compliment from my rather reserved and strict grandfather once, that for the next few months his usual hawking chant boasted an addendum: ‘D-a-k-ta-r b-a-b-u kh-e-ye b-o-l-e-che-n bh-a-l-o h-ye-chhe! (Doctor babu said it’s good).
The cacophony of these different distinctive calls created the background score of the drama of daily life and social essayists, poets, dramatists used these characters and their cries copiously to recreate the city streets in their works. Rabindranath Tagore immortalised the simple but scary-looking, tall, bearded, Afghan dry-fruit sellers who were a common site on the streets of Calcutta in his classic short story Kabuliwala, and in Gora he brings to life a typical old Calcutta residential area replete with the distinctive calls of street vendors. And who can forget the Doiwala (curd seller) whose chants mesmerised little Amal in Dakghar! The monotony of the slow-paced, black and white ‘opera binoculared’ world of Satyajit Ray’s Charulata is often broken by the calls of street vendors. But the most noted works on hawkers and their cries are by Amritlal Basu, Kaliprasanna Sinha, Ishwar Gupta and Sashi Chandra Dutta.
However, the first hand-painted depiction of the hawkers of Calcutta was probably by Balthazar Solvyns. Published as early as 1799 from Calcutta, A collection of 250 coloured etchings descriptive of the manners, customs and dresses of the Hindoos, this book provides a glimpse into the streets of European Calcutta. This was followed by Twenty-four Plates illustrative of Hindoo and European Manners in Bengal, published in 1832 by a certain Mrs S C Belnos. The book, which later received the approval of the Royal Asiatic Society of London, has three plates dedicated to the hawkers. Titled The Pedlar, Cloth Merchant and The Boxwallah, the paintings not only give us an insight into the trade but also stress the importance and prominence of these people in the society. Mrs Belnos writes that these vendors were accompanied by three/four coolies laden with huge boxes stacked with almost all things imaginable-ribbons, gloves, plastic beads, pearls, French satin, Dhakai muslin and what not and thus earned the name ‘boxwallah’.
A vivid account of these boxwallas is found in William Tayler, Thirty Eight years in India, published in 1881, where he writes: “The Bengal Boxwalla is an animal per se; hawker, pedlar, itinerant, no known word of civilised or uncivilised vocabulary will truly and befittingly describe the phenomenon. Isolate him from the angular appendage of tin and padlock, he sinks into a cipher mingling with the mass of brown humanity in which he lives.
After gaining entrance to a house, he peeps into the room or knocks at the door with confidence, sufficient for him is the listless and unequivocal assent of the unoccupied matron or an idle damsel, and in another minute he is in the middle of the room, while at his heel, two, three or four semi-nude followers, with capacious boxes on their heads enter and with silent and stealthy action deposit, in turn their freighted burdens and their own bodies. Their presence for a time is hardly noticed, but the head-man commences his exhibition by removing the choicest specimens of his goods; the quiet perseverance of the boxwallah triumphs in the end. Some attractive objects are produced and forced upon her attention. The love of bargaining or the desire of possession, forces itself on her mind and she condescends to examine one or more of the articles.”
Apart from boxwallahs and vendors, hawkers included street show artistes like jugglers, snake charmers, magicians, monkey players, tight-rope walkers etc boasting various levels of ‘bizarre’ quotient. And then there were the various ‘service providers’ and the most sought after among them were the kuor ghoti tola walas. Most houses in those days had paat kuo (water wells) and every now and then the ‘favourite’ earring of the wife, or the ‘precious’ plastic doll of the daughter, or the ‘ancestral’ brass bucket, or the ‘goodluck charm’ ladle of the servant would fall into the deep dark gorge of the well and these bounty hunters would be called and entrusted with the job to bring the treasures back from their watery graves! Although wells were long replaced by Hindware taps, and kuor ghoti tola walas by plumbers, there are still some ‘service providers’ like sheel kataowala, chhuri kaanchi shaan deoawala, chhata sharaiwala, purono ghori, gramophone sharaiwala, purono khata, shishi botolwala, chaabi katawala, khaat palong toierwala, toshok, balish toierwala, etc remain as indispensible as ever.
But the hawkers were often elusive — when you are in dire need of one, you would hear their cries and keep waiting impatiently on the street only to realise that they have passed by or changed their route.
Often every member of the family along with the neighbours, extended neighbours, visitors, servants, roadside shop keepers — all would join in this ‘feriwala spotting’ exercise. However, it was us, kids, who would usually win the challenge. But of course, we didn’t believe in free service and our parents would have to place formal requests along with the promise to buy us one 25-paise worth orange lozenge each (the deal worked fine with both the parties).
Most of these hawkers were men but when it came to popularity, it was those few non-Bengali ladies, with huge rag bundles on their heads, who stole the show. Usually tagged along by one or two young lads with tubs full of utensils, these ladies would take old clothes and give new utensils in exchange and the dupurer meyeli adda (women indulging in afternoon chats) would often revolve around who got the best deal and what they are planning to exchange next.
However, it was always the kulfiwala and the gas balloonwala who made me go weak in my knees. Then of course there was the ghotigoromwala who always seemed to arrive from nowhere on rain-drenched evenings!
And with that it starts pouring again soaking my train of thoughts. I rush back to my present and immediate concern — how to get my leopard-print umbrella repaired.

Back to U.S.S.R and Baba Yaga

It was a Friday twenty years ago. Moscow woke to the sound of tanks in the streets. The television channels went off. Troops were deployed in all major cities of Soviet Russia. President Mikhail Gorbachev, vacationing in Crimea, was taken under house arrest. There was a military coup in the USSR. And it failed within 72 hours. But, this changed the world as we knew forever. Four months later, on Christmas Day, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics disintegrated into fifteen separate countries. The breakup of the Soviet Union led to a complete reformulation of political, economic and military alliances all over the globe. The United States of America celebrated as its most formidable enemy was brought to its knees. The Cold War between the two superpowers finally ended. The newly formed Russian countries faced an overwhelming task to develop their economies, reorganize their political systems, and, in many cases, settle bitter territorial disputes.
But, none of these really had any effect on the little girl in Kolkata who was sitting by her window waiting for her latest copy of Misha—a Russian children’s magazine translated in English. Named upon Misha, the bear mascot of the 1980 Moscow Olympic Games, the magazine within its colourful glossy papers had a world of stories, news of sports, discoveries, science and technology, cartoons, pictures, fun games and craft ideas, ’How and Why’ s, poems, riddles, and what not!
The big black and white television was saying something about Russia—the snow-covered hand-painted land where the wise Elena, the witty Alyonushka, the dashing Ivan and the wicked Baba Yaga (in her hut on chicken legs) live. She runs to get a glimpse of the wonderland and all that flickers are heavy boots, blood, canons and chaos on streets—this was certainly not the Soviet Russia she knew. But then she was just ten and fairy tales were more real than reality.
I had grown up on Roosh Desher Upokotha (The folklores of Russia). My very first memories on this planet are of my dida telling me the story of the cunning ‘Chhotto Gol Ruti’ (The Doughnut) that escapes from the window of the old lady who bakes it and as it starts rolling through the streets it meets many hungry animals who lust at it but it escapes all by singing:
‘I am a doughnut round.
I was fried and browned.
From a flour bin scraped.
From a corn bin swept,
I have sour cream inside,
In butter I am fried.
They left me to cool,
But I am not fool,
Grandpa didn’t get me,
Gandma didn’t get me,
And, you Hare, won’t get me either! (Adapted by Aleksei Tolstoy)
After a rather adventurous journey the bread meets a fox who tricks it into sitting on his tongue and eats it up as soon as it lands there and with that dida would trick me into having one more morsel of food. Eventually, the black and white sketch of the haughty, cute, round bread became what the bell was to Mr. Pavlov’s dog!
However, this beautifully illustrated book with fascinating stories of Ojani desher najani ki (Go i know not where, bring I know not what), Jholmoley Baaj Finist (Fenist the falcon), Alyonoushka bon ar Ivanushka bhai (Sister Alyonushka and brother Ivanushka), Borof Buro (Father Frost), Byang Rajkumari (The Tale of Frog Tsarevna) managed to keep me under their magic spell for the first few years of my life. I would listen to the same stories each day and at times the same one twice or thrice in a single day and knew almost all the rhymes by heart!
The stories were all translated in Bengali and translated so well that for many years I had this notion that Russians are actually fur-coat clad bongs with weird names who lived north in a big blob of land of snow-capped fern forests throbbing with all kinds of weird but friendly animals. Russia on the small tin globe didn’t seem too far from India—the tiny triangle where I was told we lived. I would dream of going to Russia and talk Baba Yaga into letting me take a peek inside her ‘bone-fenced hut spinning on a chicken leg’. I was mesmerised by this creepy witch with iron teeth who rode a large mortar with her knees almost touching her chin, used a pestle to push the vehicle across the forest floor and swept away her tracks with a broom as she moved. Although she was notorious for kidnapping and even eating children, I was never scared of her. I was simply in awe of her sheer wisdom and I was convinced that there was a reindeer-drawn sledge car service from Calcutta to Russia and I was sure if searched properly one such car can be found amid the rows of horse-drawn cars that stay lined in front of Victoria Memorial—after all reindeers were nothing but horses with long-branched horns!
It is important to be literate and it is even more important to have a chhotomashi and I realised this pretty early in life. I was in upper nursery when chhotomashi got me a copy of Anari (Dunno) and after that there was no looking back! With each book I realised that there was more to Russia than snow, sledge-cars, magicians, witches and Ivans. In the colourfully illustrated (by Boris Kalaushin) pages I discovered Dunno and his clever antithesis Doono and their friends Blob, Gunky, Swifty, Rolly-Polly; Flower City—an Utopian land located by the Cucumber River where Dunno and his friends live; the tech savvy world of Sun City where Dunno goes on a road trip; Greenville¬¬, inhabited only by ‘girl-Mites’ where Dunno’d balloon crash-lands; and the spirit of adventure. These Nikolai Nosov books were a unique mix of fairytales, adventure stories, school stories and science fictions.
Slowly, stories from around the world started making their way into my life. But none could measure up to the Russian genius for storytelling coupled with quirky and intricate art and design. Published largely by Progress, Mir or Raduga, these included a variety of topics ranging from fables of Leo Tolstoy, fairytales of Alexandar Pushkin, folktales of Alexandar Afanasiev, adventures of Two toreadors from Vasukovka Village by Vsevolod Nestaiko, adventures of the curious little curious Pochemuchka by Boris Zhitkov, short stories written in verse by Samuil Marshak, story of Legging the robber by Leonid Yakhnin, Hello, I am robot by Stanislav Zigunenko (with wonderfully detailed illustrations by Eric Benyaminsona that elucidated the Soviet view in the late 80′s of the future of robotics) to stories of Lenin, Revolution, Communism and the Red Stars of Kremlin. Illustrated by stalwarts like Yuri Cherepanov, Ivan Bilibin, Vladimir Lebedev, Evgeny Rachev, Igor Yershov, the books were translated in Bengali mostly by Nani Bhowmik, Supriya Ghosh and among the English translators were Irina Zheleznova, Fainna Glagoleva, Benard Isaacs, Olga Shartse, Miriam Morton and others.
The Bolshevik regime regarded children’s books as major vehicles for transmitting Soviet ideology and propaganda among the future ‘soldiers’ of Russia and by 1924, two years after the Soviet Union was formed, the Central Committee of the Party rejected the pre-Revolutionary era, children’s literature that primarily consisted fairytales, legends, and fantasy stories. Children were the great red hope for the Marxist-Leninist and as early as 1918 Pravda affirmed: “the children’s book as a major weapon for education must receive the widest possible distribution.” And Soviet educator believed: “Even if the child cannot read . . . [pictures] will stimulate an interest in study and the child will to learn to read.” However, it was not until 1934 that the new regime granted folktales, fairytales and magic was a new lease of life.
My heart always remained loyal to Vasilisa the Beautiful and Baba Yaga. These folktales, fairytales and fables of Chukchi, Nanian, Nenet, Caucasian, Belorussian, Moldovian, Ukranian, Turkmenian,Yakut origin seemed more interesting and multidimensional than Hans Christian Andersen’s and Disney’s. The stories exuded an earthly charm and it somehow seemed as if these were stories about ‘real’ people. Each story reflected the culture, customs and costumes of the region it was set in. Unlike its Western counterparts these characters had variety in their wardrobe and not all wore tuxedos, leggings and long gowns. These were not typical stories of a hero rescuing his damsel in distress-- the stories were mostly centred on a girl who wins battles and hearts through her kindness and wit. Magic and sorcery could be triumphed through intelligence. And even the evil usually had a kinder side and can become quite lovable creatures at times! The vivid description of the locations and the hand-painted pictures would often transport me to the snowy Tundra,’ a barren realm of fierce frosts and howling blizzards’ and I would dream of living in a ‘choom’ (tent made of animal skin), wear deer-skin boots and have a gold-feathered ‘finist’(Falcon) as my pet.
But, it all changed after that Friday. Soviet Union seized to exist and the publishing houses that churned out ingredients for my dreams slowly pulled down their shutters. ‘The next issue of Misha’ never arrived, what happened to Dunno when he finally landed on the Moon remained a mystery, nobody ever knocked on Baba Yaga’s ‘spinning hut-on-chicken-legs’ again and frost accumulated on the memory of Tundra. And the man, who once eked out a living by selling these books on the trains of a small far-off city called Calcutta, lost his only source of income (only to be found 20 years later begging on the platform of a railway station).
Today, Russia is still trying hard to stand back on its feet and according to Prime Minister Vladimir Putin the collapse of the Soviet Union was the greatest geopolitical tragedy of the 20th century and even Boris Nemtsov who participated in the opposition to the coup attempt and later became deputy Russian prime minister admits: “We were very naive -- not only me, but Yeltsin and all of our team. ... Unfortunately, reality looks much more serious and much more complicated than we believed at that time.” The coup had many casualties and among them was the thriving children’s book industry. There has been much debate on the deep impact of the collapse of USSR on world politics and economics and diplomatic relations between countries, but, one of the best kept secrets of the fall was perhaps the expunged legacy of its innovative children's book industry that had revolutionized art and design and captured the hearts of young readers all over the world. And it was a sheer delight to discover a few reprints of these nostalgia-laden treasures on the streets of College Street after two decades!

The Kali Katha of Kolkata

Kalikatha!
She is mad. She is wild. She wears garland of human skulls around her neck and human limbs around her waist. She drinks blood. She is a rebel. She is an embodiment of raw power. She is an epitome of women’s liberation. Her dance is the dance of destruction. She creates maya. Her favourite haunt are the crematoriums. She feeds on the mortal remains of the dead. She is like a dark night. She is like a bad omen. Hers is a world that is dark, evil and gory. Kali, an incarnation of Dashamahavidya, is hardly the benevolent, loving, mother goddess. Yet, she is one of the most prominent and powerful figures of the Hindu pantheon today.
However, it would not be inapt to say that Kali is a subaltern goddess. Tribals, Dacoits and the marginal people living away from so called civilization and amid hostile conditions needed a warrior as their god to protect them from the natural and man-made calamities. Lord Shiva was still too much a God of the genteel class. And Kali fitted the bill. Her ‘fearful symmetry’ aroused faith—faith to triumph over various evil forces. Kali became the God of these people and her temples came up in the unlikeliest of places amid thick jungles where only the lion-hearted dared. It was much later, perhaps when these forests were encroached upon, that Kali got a place in the alters of the Babus.
What’s in a name?
Kali is the presiding goddess of the city of Kolkata and it is Kali which gives the city its name. If Nawab Siraj-Ud-Daulah was as lucky as the Left Front government and Mir Jafar and Omichand weren’t so blatantly influenced by Brutus, it might have just been a reality--much before Calcutta became Kolkata, Siraj-Ud-Daulah had rechristened it to Alinagar in 1756. However, this new move infuriated the vindictive dark goddess Kali upon whose name the city was named Kalikata (later anglicized to Calcutta) and her wrath fell on the young nawab leading to his devastating defeat in the Battle of Plassey. And the rest is history (of colonial Calcutta).
There are many theories regarding the source and etymology of the word ‘Kalikata’. Kalikata may have got its name from ‘khal kata’—after the great canal dug to prevent the Maratha Bargi invasions. But, then again, the place was known for manufacturing of shell-lime and the name could have been derived from lime (kali) and burnt shell (kata). According to some historians the name ‘Kolikata’ was derived from the Bengali term kilkila (“flat area”). But the most widely accepted theory is that it is linked with Goddess Kali. Kali is to Kalikata what Mumba devi is to Mumbai and Athena is to Athens --it is not only the presiding deity of the city, but also what has given the city its identity and its name.
The term ‘Kalikata’ may have come from Kali Kota which means ‘temple of Kali’. The temple of Kalighat, regarded as one of the 51 shakti peethas, has found mention in texts written as early as 15th century.
Many believe Kalikata was where ‘Kalika thha’ or kalika was. Some legends say there was a Kali temple and a ghaat made of stone (the name Pathuriyaghata came from this stone embankment) at the north of Posta. For reasons unknown, the Kapaliks took the Kali from this temple to Kalighat which was then a forest and built a temple there--hence where Goddess Kalika or Kali originally resided became Kalika thha or Kalikata.
Another popular belief is that Kalikata may have derived its name from Kali Khsetra.
As per Peethmala and Nigama Granth Goddess Kali herself told that there is a bow shaped land (khshetra) stretched from Dakshineswar to Bahulapur (now Behala). This triangular land is the abode of Bramha, Vishnu and Maheswar—the holy trinity. At the centre of this resides Kali and the whole area is Kali Khsetra –the chosen land of the goddess and hence one of the holiest.
Age of Kali
River Ganga took a left turn near Princep Ghat and past through Kalighat, Tollygunge, Garia, Baishnabghata and merged with River Bidhyadhari before flowing to the sea. This was one of the major business route of the time and finds mentions in the Mangalkabyas. The area was mostly a dense forest but the banks of the river boasted quite a few Kali temples where the merchants would stop by to offer prayers before starting their sea voyage. Later the river changed its course and today it is difficult to even imagine the Tully Nulla as a part of that Ganga where boats laden with merchandise rowed up and down.
Among these temples the most prominent was the temple at Kalighat. Kalighat area was previously a part of Sundarbans and was a dense forest infested with dacoits and kapaliks most of whom were ardent devotees of Kali. During this time human sacrifice was almost a regular ritual. As legends go the present Dakshina Kali idol was installed by two saints called Brahmananda Giri and Atmaram Giri who discovered fossils of fingers of Devi Sati's feet from the pond called Kalikunda. Later, a small temple was constructed by Raja Mansingha (alternatively Raja Basanta Roy )in the early Sixteenth century on the bank of the river Adi Ganga where traders used to stop over and pay their obeisance. The present structure was however, built much later in 1809 by Santosh Roy Choudhury-- a member of the Sabarna Roy Choudhury Family.
Kalighat temple, regarded as one of the most important of the 51 Shakti Peethas was however not the only Kali temple when the British landed in Kalikata. There was the temple of Goddess Chitreswari or Chitriteshwari or Chitteshwari on the banks of Ganga at present day Bagbazar. It is said that the original temple was built by an infamous dacoit name Chite and has a rather gory past. After the death of Chite this temple lay abandoned until 1586 when a tantrik named Nrishingha Bamhachari arrived here and revived the puja. But, the present temple was erected much later in 1610 by the then zamindar Manohar Ghosh.
The name Chitpur was derived from this temple and along with Sutanuti, Gobindapur and Kalikata, this was the fourth village that existed during that time. And connecting the two grand temples was a pathway Chitpur road-- regarded as the oldest of Kolkata was then the ‘road to Kalighat’. On the way in the middle of the jungle of Chowrangi, where the new building of Asiatic Society is situated, was a shiva temple—probably erected by Chowranga giri—the same hermit who is at times credited to have built the original Kalighat temple. However, according to some the name Chowrangi came from the village-god Chowranginath-(Shiv); while others believe Chowrangi to be a derivative of Chirangi or Chirnagi –another name for Kali.
There is another Kali temple in Chitpur which finds mention in Bipradas Pilpai’s Manasa Vijaya written in 1495—‘Chitpurey pujey raja Sharbamangala’. Situated just half a mile from Adi Chitteshwari temple, the present Chitteswari Sharbamangala temple is said to be built after the ‘Robinhood of Bengal’ Raghu dakat found a stone idol in a nearby pond around 400 years back. According to the present priest, around the same time Ramsharan Shimlai, a Bangladeshi merchant was travelling past the place in his boat when he stopped by to offer prayers and stayed back. Later, when Raghu Dakat surrendered to the East India Company, he willed all his property along with the temple to Shimlai.
Another important temple of Kalikata is the Firingi Kalibari at Bowbazar. According to some this shrine was established by a man named Srimanta Dom. He also used to treat local people suffering from small pox and most of his patient were the newly arrived Europeans (Firingi ) of the locality. Many patients would also stop by and offer prayers in this temple and hence the temple became popular as Firingi Kalibari. However, the plaque on the outer wall of the temple suggests that this temple was erected in 904 Bangabda, (1498 AD) which makes it far older than the European settlement in Kalikata. According to the present priest the temple was initially a Shiva temple where the idol of Kali was installed on “Panchamundi Asan” much later most probably by Antony Kabial popularly known as Antony Firingi. Indeed under the main dome of the temple is a Shivling and the idol of Kali stand quite far from it, almost at one corner of the temple.
Birth of a City
Laxmikanta Roy Choudhury (1570-1649) received the ownership of eight villages, including Kalikata from Emperor Akbar. Job Charnock, East India Company’s Chief agent in Bengal, set up camp on the swampy banks of the Hooghly river on August 24, 1690 and bought three villages from Sabarna Roy Choudhury a descendent of the Laxmikanta Roy Choudhury’s for Rs 1,300 on November 10, 1698 and the city of Calcutta started rising over these three hamlets—Sutanuti, Gobindapur and Kalikata and in 1772 became the capital of British India. However, although Kalikata turned into Calcutta, the Kali katha of the city didn’t end.
In 1703 one Shankar Ghosh erected a Shiddheshwari Kali temple in Thanthania. However, according to legends the temple is older than this and was handed over to Ghosh by a tantric. The area was a dense forest then. It is said that in the 19th century Sri Ramkrishna Paramhansa and his disciples including Swami Vivekananda and Girish Ghosh became a regular here. The present temple is a new one and has no architectural significance. However, it remains one of the most famous Kali temples of the city.
In 1760 Nandadulal Roy Choudhury of Shabarna Roy Chaudhury built a Kali temple in Tollygunge after his beloved daughter Karunamoyee passed away. It is said Kali in the guise of his daughter visited the grieving Nandadulal in his dream and comforted him. After this incident he erected a Navaratna Kali temple along with twelve aatchala Shiva temples. Although, the present temple was built much later the idol of the Goddess is the ancient one. At a stone’s throw distance situated on the banks of Adi Ganga is another temple dedicated to Shiddheshwari Kali. This 200 year old Kali was installed by one Saraswatibabu and according to local people he was a warrior who lived amid what was then a dense forest and a den of dacoits.
The Shiddheshwari Kali temple at Ratan Babu’r Ghat in Baranagar is around 300 years old and was established by Khudiram Chattyopadhyaye. The idol here is made of neem wood. Close to this at Kuthighat is the majestic temple built by Joy Chandra Mitra in 1850 upon a Dutch cemetary. It is a navaratna temple with a nat mandir and 12 Shiv mandirs. Here the Goddess is Kripamoyee and the Shiv and Kali is curved from one single stone. Built 6 years after this, it is said that Rani Rashmoni’s famous Bhabatarini Kali temple at Dakkhineshwar used this temple as a blue-print and the same person is supposed to have built the three idols—Siddheshwari of Ratanbabu Ghaat, Kripamoyee of Kuthi Ghaat and Bhabatarini of Dakkhineshwar.
The small temple complex at the South Eastern Railway headquarters in Garden Reach looks like any other small roadside temple but enter the Kali temple and you’d be in for a surprise. The Kali idol here is as dark as a moonless night and yet as bright as the blazing sun. According to the priest of the temple the Kali is 800 years old and was discovered floating in the river. Until a few years back it was a crude wooden idol but even now the trimmings of modernity have not been able to fade the radiance of its raw power. Then there is the Dakatiya Kalibari at –around 150 years old this rather small Kali temple is said to be built by one Manohar dakat.
Later as Kali become one of the most popular and most worshipped Goddess, temples cropped up at almost every nook and corner of the city including a Chinese Kali temple at Tangra. Today, Kali continues to be the life force behind Kolkata and Kali temples can be discerned even at the most non-descript corners of the city
Kali’s city
Kolkata to many is all about naked starving children, dark and dingy lanes piled with garbage, streets soiled with blood, and it seems with its squalor, muck, madness, decay, suffering and rebellion Kolkata reflects the very spirit of its presiding goddess. Just like Kali, the city which seems malevolent and grim. But at the same time, like Kali it is a city that dispels the evil through destruction, her insanity brings back order, she is dark yet beautiful, she is terrifying yet she protects, to her own she brings assurance and is a source of strength, courage and inspiration. No city could have been more apt for Kali and no goddess better than Kali to own a city like Kolkata. Kolkata is Kali and Kali is Kolkata.

SHONAAR KELLAA!!! (Jaisalmer)

My tongue was still savouring the heavenly taste of the last crumbs of my Pyaz ki kachouri, it was raining outside and the bus was passing through lush green meadows replete with ponds-but wait! This was supposed to be an arid, barren land riddled with cactus, there ought to be a railway-track somewhere and the road was supposed to be strewn with broken glasses. Something is surely wrong. I should have checked where the bus is heading, it would have been the most obvious thing to do but then I was too busy buying kachouris. My autowalah, who had made it his responsibility to board me to the right bus, had got me the ticket and almost hurled me into the already moving vehicle (I have always depended on the kindness of strangers!).
The bus was packed but a ‘girl travelling alone’ has her advantages! And the ‘helper’ obliged me with his own seat (the lone ‘single sitter’) to make sure ‘Madam’ doesn’t have to huddle with rustic passengers. I was on my way to the Mecca of Bong travellers but 3 hours into the journey and things were getting too green for comfort. What if this is all part of some sinister plan? What if all these people are part of some bandit group and I am being abducted? It was 4 in the afternoon and the highway was empty. There was no network on my mobile phone. I am trapped.
Then suddenly I saw the sign! Pokaran! Wasn’t this the place where the evil Mandar Bose and the fake Dr. Hajra had their secret rendezvous? So, I was on the right bus and was not being abducted (I was a tad disappointed though…it is not every day that you get the chance to play the helpless princess).
After Pokaran the landscape began to change and looked every bit like what it was supposed to look like! -the lush green melted into rocky brown and then turned rough sepia. A few camels started appearing now and then and I could almost hear Mr.Lalmohan Ganguly’s famous lines: ‘Utera ki kanta bechhey khaye?’ But, thankfully, there was no broken glass on the road (guess Mandar Bose now works in some IT firm and is happy in his ‘cubicled’ life!) and within an hour we crossed a road sign that said: ‘Welcome to Jaisalmer’! So, I was finally there!
Bengals love-affair with this sleepy speck of a hamlet amid the Thar Desert began way back in 1971 with Satyajit Ray’s famous detective novel, Sonar Kella and turned into an obsession with the release of its movie version. And this had spawned the phenomenon of mass migration of bongs to this once obscure place.
I do not remember when I first saw or read the book. Born a decade after Prodosh Mitter aka Feluda- the famous detective and one of the most loved characters of Bengali literature-had chased the goons in the narrow alleys of Shonar Kella (Golden Fortress); I like every Bong born after 1971, inherited the legacy of Ray and knew the lanes and by-lanes of the majestic sand-stoned fort of Jaisalmer like the back of my palm.
But, almost half an hour into Jaisalmer and all I could see was a vast expanse of monochromatic landscape-and then suddenly it rose from the sand! It rose from nowhere! And it rose like magic! The first glimpse of the magnificent edifice that has become a cynosure of a state 2000km away from the sandy hues of Rajasthan and shimmering under the last rays of a fading sun Ray’s Shonar Kella shimmered like a dream...and disappeared like a dream-of course the bus had to take a turn into bumpy reality. When I reached RTDC’s Moomal it was 7pm.The hotel looked straight out of some Walter de la Mare poem! When I finally managed to find the manager and he found the keys of my room, I was too tired to do anything and the soft white bed was too tempting to even try anything else. So, I sold all my horses and donkeys and went off to sleep.
The autowalah arrived sharp at 6 am. After a quick breakfast I started off for the holy land and when we reached the gates of Eden, the new-born sun had imbued the yellow sandstones with an ethereal golden glow and the castle emanated fairytale. Like Mukul, I gasped and heard myself say: S-H-O-N-A-R K-E-L-L-A! Was this really real? The willing suspension of disbelief was short-lived. As I walked into the ‘walled city’ the shrill voice of a bargaining Bong spoiled my slow-mo dream sequence-the supposedly deserted desert fort of the crime-thriller is actually a buzzing town! The 800-year-old citadel is home to several thousand people and is in fact the only fort in India where people still live in - the chaiwalah enlightened me and in the next few hours I discovered a whole new Jaisalmer where intricately carved sand-stone havelis still speak of traders with long trains of camels loaded with silvers, rugs, and perfumes travelling to far off lands and of riches unimaginable while the narrow strips of streets speak in all languages possible-Rajasthani, Bengali, Hebrew, Hindi, Gibberish. It was a heady mix of fairytale, folklore, urban legend strewn with mirror-worked lehenga-clad village belles, dhakai saree wrapped mashimas and tattoo-covered lonely-planet hippies.
As I wandered through what I thought I knew like the back of my palm I suddenly heard Mukul whisper into my ears: ‘Eta Mondir’-I was standing right in front of the breathtakingly beautiful Jain temple which Mukul had remembered from his past life! I can feel a gush of chill run through my spine! Mukul took my hand and led me through the dingy by-lane next to the temple. We crossed Ratan’s house and Giridhari’s house and the place where they played holi. But, he abandoned me just as we reached the lane that led to his house. I turned around. The whole town was made of same yellow sandstone and was glistening like gold! Ray couldn’t have possibly found a better setting for his story about a 7-year-old boy who was suddenly getting visions from his past life where he had precious stones lying in his house and the walls were made of gold. The ‘dushtu lok’ (evil guys) kidnap the boy and embark on a treasure trail only to find out that the fort of gold was in reality a fort made of yellow sandstone and Mukul was no prince but a son of a jeweller and there was no treasure hidden in the ruins of his house.
Indeed, Mukul was no prince, but whoever was must have been pretty lucky living in such an intricately carved, seven-storey haveli. And the view from the roof-top was stunning-the sprawling sand-stoned town, hemmed by a desert of melted gold, was dazzling under the mid-day sun.
The priest at the Jain temple had recommended three must-visit havelis. First was the Patwon-ki-haveli-if the finesse of the stone filigree of a mere trader’s house astonished me, the price of the fine fabric they sell to the tourists almost gave me a heart-attack! Next was Salim Singh’s haveli . The architecture is exquisite- there are 38 odd balconies and each distinctly different from the other. The owner was a nice and knowledgeable man in his mid-forties and patiently took me through each of the rooms, explaining the exquisite architecture in intricate details.
Nathmalji-ki-haveli was less touristy and a bit difficult to find. But, the carvings were like poetry on stone and arguably the most grand and intricate of the havelis! Like in Salim Singh’s haveli, the owners still live in this magnificent haveli but their days of glory are long gone-once the house of the prime minister of the royal court now sells homemade artworks to make a living. I discerned one of the descendents of Nathmalji in a dimly-lit corner giving finishing touches to a peacock. It was so intricate that I could almost feel his heart-beat through my eyes! Naresh and I gelled like jelly. We spoke for hours over cups of homemade hot kesariya chae. He told me about his art, how they make colours from stones and brushes from peacock feathers, and also gave me ‘student’s concession’ on the painting I bought!
When I left the haveli, the sun had sobered down and as I made my way through serpentine alleys lined with harlequin kitsch, friendly locals, over-friendly shop-keepers, visibly lost tourists, Bengali-speaking tourist guides, flying peacocks and fleeting memories of Mukul and Feluda, I realised that Satyajit Ray in his book had only but given a teaser of the actual experience that is the fort of Jaisalmer. It is much more than the golden citadel from Mukul’s past life, much more than a desert castle of dreams, it is a city that oozes romance, opulence, myth and life. It is a city frozen in time and it is a city that transcends time.

Coffee and Cigarettes!

An obscure entrance flanked by a mundane cigarette shop and then a winding staircase. Almost as if in a trance I got my ‘6 classics’ from the corner store only to remember that smoking is now banned in public places. However, I stashed the sticks in my pocket and started to climb the stairs. The smell of fresh paint was almost nauseating. The walls that used to be plastered with layers of pamphlets and memories now stand white-washed. We were never the ‘first floor crowd’ but still I chose to check out the haloed ‘hall of fame’ (better known as ‘house of commons’)once before climbing to the balcony aka 'house of the Lords'. The dilapidated door was replaced by a plush one and boasted a new signboard- I hesitated a few moments, I was still not sure if I was ready to face the ‘change’. Suddenly, a familiar voice: ‘Ki go didi atodin por? Bakishob kothaye? Opore esho .’ (Where were you all these days? Where are the rest? Come upstairs) –startled I looked around and there he was! Our very own ‘his highness’ in his white formals replete with white turban and green cummerbund (this non-descript man may come across as an ordinary waiter but the character of Don Vito Corleone was actually based on him). He didn’t wait for an answer and I realised that I am inside a sunshine-yellow hallway adorned with brightly painted canvasses and in front of me was a huge full-length poster of young Tagore . This is hardly the Coffee House I left 4 years back! Since 1942, it has acted as a greenhouse to the budding philosophers, writers, actors, directors, politicians and lovers and ever since Manna Dey sang the famous lines: ‘Coffee House er shei adda ta aaj ar nei’, Indian Coffee House at College Street has been a source of collective nostalgia for bongs- even to the first timers! The very fact that the place was once a favourite hangout of stalwarts like Satyajit Ray, Manna Dey, Amartya Sen, Soumitro Chatterjee, Aparna Sen, Ritwik Ghatak, Mrinal Sen has given it a halo of a sacred place to the city ‘intellectuals’. To be able to sit on same spot where Allen Ginsberg, Sunil Ganguli and Shakti Chattopadhyaye spent hours dissecting romance and revolution over cups of infusion is enough to give a high to most. I don’t remember when I first went to Coffee House. Going to College Street to buy school books was an annual event and this usually ended with a ‘treat’ at Coffee House. At that age the ‘haloed place’ looked rather shabby to me and I hated the long wait for food. But, it was when I enrolled for my Masters in Calcutta University that I truly ‘discovered’ the place (and the fact that there are actually many people like me who really never liked ‘infusion’!). What really made Coffee House an instant favourite among us was not its ex-client list but the fact that it was pocket friendly and you could sit there for hours- and we sat there until they pulled the shutters down and almost threw us out! However, this ‘sitting’ part really needed technique for the wooden chairs and tables were home to millions of bed bugs. But then where there is a will there is always a way and if there aren’t any, you devise one! And as dedicated we were to our adda sessions we indeed came up with quite a few of those. From bug creams to bringing empty folders just to use them as hand rests to the boys trying to impress the girls by finding that rare steel chair-we did all that it takes to survive and fall in love with Coffee House (with its bugs! ). What made this coffee house a ‘home’(for us humans as well) was really its people, especially the waiters- the very soul of this place. Their memory used to store the names of the famous and the ordinary college goers alike; a memorable day that has gone down the pages of history to how many cups of 'infusion' and cutlet you have devoured they kept a track of it all. Apart from serving our orders ‘his highness’ wouldn’t hesitate to rebuke us for having too much coffee and cigarettes, and if we came in too drenched after romancing in the rain, his would be the concerned voice to caution us not to sit near the fan. Then there was the silent cashier with a head-master’s gaze and bell to match-when things got too loud the bell would ring to warn us check our decibel levels! Food was the last thing on the menu as far as the coffee house adda was concerned and we mostly survived on cold coffee (which was actually normal plain coffee served cold) and cigarettes. However, the first thing I noticed on the grime-laden menu card, apart from the grime, was a lot of ‘do’s- Chicken Do, Vegetable Do, Egg Do etc and it took me quite a few days to decipher this code. It was simply a ‘Ditto’ sign under the sandwich! Such oddities were common in this house of commons. But, today’s renovated coffee house hardly looks a place that we-the then-wannabe-rebels would have felt at home. Sitting in front of that huge a size of poster of Tagore can have a rather intimidating effect! However, as I climbed the stairs and reached the balcony I felt a bit less lost. Thankfully, ‘our’ table was not occupied and sat on the bright red plastic chair-- there are no bugs now but you can hardly sit on it with your legs folded as we would in our old wooden ones-- I sighed and closed my eyes. I could almost see the familiar faces crowding around me, the first rain splashing on the staircase through the tall windows, five of us almost crawling out of the classroom, rushing through the corridor, the old elevator, crossing Rakhalda’s canteen where J is still waiting for R, crossing the rain-soaked laal bedi looking as red as revolution, the water-logged College Street, clattering of trams and rickshaws and ‘mundaneness’, smell of wet books, the two of us making lame excuses to ‘the rest’ and taking roundabout ways, getting drenched, finally joining ‘the rest’ at the ‘balcony’ and sinking into the chair--‘his highness’ appears ‘Ki go ar karor dekha nei je? Ki khabe bolo?’ (Where are the rest? What will you have?) –startled, I open my eyes, he had the same stern smile. Suddenly, I realized there was really nothing wrong with the sunshine yellow or the huge poster or even the ‘bugless’ chair- all that mattered was how close you keep your friends and how many rounds of random discussions you can survive!

A Rainy Day!

I have walked out in rain
- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
--Robert Frost

It was raining since morning and the lane that joins our housing complex to the rest of the civilization now looked like a river. The vinyl record was playing Sawan gagane ghor ghanghata from Bhanushingher Podaboli and I had already made seven glossy paper boats made from the pages of Anandalok which I had managed to sneak out from Thamma’s room (my grandma was obsessed with the Bengali film magazine and instead of fairytales I grew up on Tollywood gossips). I was feeling increasingly restless.
Suddenly, it came! The signal! There was a nudge on the thread that was the cynosure of my attention for so long. I ran to the matchbox attached to it and put it close to my mouth: ‘Hello! I station zebra?’ Then I pressed the box to my ear: “I station zebra” came the answer. That was our code for the day. (Well I came to know much later that the name of the book was Ice Station Zebra and I was absolutely heartbroken to know that it had nothing to do with Zebras...adult world was rather difficult to fathom then ) The matchbox on my window was attached to a thread and on the other end of the thread was another box which was stuck to the window of my friend’s house who lived in the building just opposite to ours-this was our very own ‘telephone’ and it was strictly for confidential conversations and hence password protected (although mostly it consisted repeating the words the first person asks). And on days like these when we were not allowed to play outside or go to each other’s house, this ‘telephone’ became our sole source of communication. So, finally it was time! I rushed downstairs with my paper boats.
The last two steps of the staircase were under water. I sat on the third and started floating the boats. We watched dazed as each crossed the bend of the lane and disappeared -one, two, three...seven! I could see another row of boats emerging from the other side as well. It was such a pretty site! I prayed with all my heart ( God was an old man with white beard and an eerie similarity to Santa back then) that it would remain waterlogged till the boats reach the ’faraway land’ and none would encounter any man-hole in the course of their journey. I loved going to school on such days! That gave me an opportunity to get up close and personal with the mud, puddle and the absolutely gorgeous murky water.
I never liked raincoats until I was brainwashed to believe that even Sherlok Holmes wear raincoats and he wears it all the time (of course it was easy to bluff a 6-yr-old and trench coats did look a lot like my Daisy Duck print plastic raincoat.) So, there we were, me, my school bag, inside my Sherlock Holmes raincoat; and my shoes and socks in a plastic bag- all set for the expedition! As I hopped skipped jumped my journey to the bus stand, I would at times imagine myself to be a pirate braving the turbulent ocean and at times I would be a princess in distress but I loved myself as ‘FreeWhilly’ the most.
We never had an official Rainy Day in our school. But, I loved everything as long as it rained (I could survive even the scary maths classes on days like these!) and my mind could wander along the wet wooden staircase that smelled like hot chocolate fudge and run wild in the lush velvety green playgrounds or would just watch the wind caress the raindrop-laden trees after a fresh spell. The school wore a resplendent glow after the rain and the faint music from the grand piano in the chapel would turn it into one of those enchanting fairytale castles (I only hoped they could do away with the ‘studies’ part)
At a certain point I lost track of the winding stairs, the Gulmohars, the European buildings and the report cards with always came with ‘very talkative’ on the remarks column. I changed schools and when I was in class 6 I landed in one which was almost an integral part of our family tradition. Most of the teachers were the same who taught my ma and two aunts and hence kept a hawk’s-eye on me. It was a school where my classmates are still learning the basics of English at class 6 as I fumbled with learning the basic terms of all the subjects in Bengali (and stop using English words in my conversations), the library didn’t have one single book of Nancy Drew, and all girls were supposed to be good at singing and sewing (I abhorred both).
I was a total ‘misfit’ living in a petri dish under a powerful microscope. But, the monsoon would have its magic on such a dull, claustrophobic place as well! The gloomy-looking Corinthian pillars as well as the teachers would suddenly all look cheerful and it would seem as if I can hide myself under the blanket of rain and escape the gazes that had become an integral part of being the ‘fat girl who shows off her English’ experience.
But, what I liked most about a rainy day was the fact that on days when few students managed to turn up, the school would arrange for Kichhuri and Aloo Bhaja for us all! The school still followed the age-old custom of providing lunch to the students (and the fee for that was Rs 10/ month) and it varied from luchi torkari to muri alur chop to plain muri. But, on special days like these, some of us would brave the torrential rain and wade through knee-deep water just for this scrumptious platter--Kichhuri and Aloo bhaja never tasted that good before or after that!

But, it was in college that I fell truly, deeply, madly in love with the rain. The heady mix of the smell of old books and chipped plaster along with the petrichor, wet rings of smoke, and rain-flavoured tea from mati’r bhaar –even the die-hard love-atheist would have found it hard to resist the charm of College Street during the rains! After that there was no looking back! I fell in love with my city all over again. Each nook and corner, each street of this old city had its own story and rain adds poetry to each. And nothing gets you closer to the soul of a street than getting drenched walking through it under a sky cracking up with thunders!
Today, sitting at a coffee shop in Park Street watching the blue neon rain lash the night and tail lights of speeding cars leaving trails of liquid light on the rain-smudged streets, hearing the cacophony of mundane life melt into white noise, and munching on half-forgotten memories I suddenly felt empty inside--a sense of loss gripped me as I mourned lost paper boats that never made it to the faraway land, ghoti-goromwala who emerged only when it rained, dark afternoons spent with thamma listening to weird stories, sound of wet school shoes, singing in the rain with friends, listening to ma recite poetry (which she will forget halfway), convincing friends that there is actually nothing more fun than wading the waterlogged streets, scribbling songs to each other as the professor went on with his lecture and the sound of rain drowned his monotonous voice, bunking classes and getting back absolutely drenched, crazy long-drives amid torrential rain, standing in the middle of the street with arms stretched and feel each drop of rain fall on my skin and seep into my soul, and I mourned the friends and lovers who had disappeared on one such rainy day. Just then waiter arrived with a steaming cup of coffee and I discerned a Cumulonimbus in my cappuccino! I gulped it down. My heart needs some rain tonight.

Curiouser and curiouser! (Pushkar)

Me with Kastuji Bhopa's family!

At Hard Rock Café…and you thought it is all about LedZEp, U2, Springsteen!

I am at Hard Rock Cafe; its raining tigers and hyenas outside; the streets are water-logged; on the century-old television, a thickly-painted girl dressed in a red and golden ghagra-choli is doing a snake dance to some Rajashthani film song; sharing space with Saibaba, Ganesh, Bani Thani, pixies and fairies, is a huge banner on the opposite wall that reads: ‘sizzlar, ratatolley, lazzagane, thali, salomalkha, feelafel, camel safari, side seen’ and I am sitting in a dimly-lit food joint, as confused as a hungry baby in a topless bar, trying to find my way through what seemed a maze of eggplants, tahinas, mushrooms, avocados, nutellas, and what-nots on an 11-pager grime-laden menu card. Indeed, nothing one associates with a ‘Hard Rock Café’, but then I am in Pushkar, and it seems it has its own version of everything!
After much deliberation, I settled down for an ‘Israeli Thali’ as the main course and an apple crumble for dessert. And then there was a long wait. During this time I tried to trace the events that have landed me in this weird world.
With not a single religious bone in my body and absolutely no intention to start a camel-cart service in the city, I had no excuse to justify why I was missing the Kolkata Film Festival (for which my friends have promptly marked me a ‘kafir’) and heading towards a cattle fair in some remote holy hamlet of Rajasthan. But, then there was something about the combination of camels, gypsies, sadhus and a desert echoing with folksongs, that was tempting me to do the ‘unpardonable’.
So, a rather long flight and a 3-hour drive later I was finally in Pushkar trudging through the dusty by lanes (as no vehicle is allowed to ply within the hamlet during the fair) of a totally unknown village-town, trying to decipher the road signs which in most cases pointed towards the sky. The pastel-coloured houses slowly gave way to shops selling blindingly bright kitsch, garments, silver junk, puppets, and the English signboards increasingly started to accommodate Gibberish (which I later learnt was Yiddish) and the paraphernalia of a Hindu shrine--vermillion smeared sadhus, blessing-selling beggars, grim-looking holy cows--started to make their way into my consciousness.
“Madam, hot, fresh!”…Whoa! I almost fell from my chair! There he was, my waiter with a huge Rajasthani thaali and an even bigger and addictive smile! The piece of Israel consisted pita bread, falafel, humus, tahina, salad, fries, carrot pickle and eggplants and more of it. As I had no idea about how the original versions of these tasted like, my tongue was happy with what it got. But the best was saved for the last... the apple crumble! It was a bowl overflowing with raw apples cut into pieces, fresh cream, ice cream, and lots of butterscotch sauce-it tasted nothing like anything I had known as an ‘apple crumble’ so far but it was fresh and scrumptious nonetheless!
Not a bad start!
Israeli Wraps, German Bakery and Kamsin Kali
It was 7 in the morning and I was all set to explore Pushkar. The narrow strip of a street that connects all the madness that is Pushkar is overflowing with pilgrims, photographers, locals, foreigners, holy cows and Royal Enfields. If the light-eyed vivacious village belles in their bright, flowy ghagras, backless cholis and junk jewellery amused the foreigners, the harlequin harem pant-clad hippies had the same effect on the locals and everyone was gazing at everyone with the photographers aiming at anyone coming their way and at times even at those gazes!
My first pit-stop for the day was Pawan Restaurant-- a roadside stall selling wraps and rolls. But then this was Pushkar where nothing is how you expect it to be. The stall was no exception. The menu card was in five different languages and from vegetable pakora to ‘veg-sandwich with tikki’, aloo parantha to ‘pasta pizzanola’, cheese, tomato naan to taco bell burrito and staple Pushkar diet ‘falafel humus and laffa’-- it had almost the entire globe on its platter! I settled down for a falafel roll and waited with baited breath. Hardly 10 minutes and ‘it’ arrived--a wrap with some daal pakoris, aloo tikkis, one neat ‘begun bhaja’ and lots of garlicy white sauce--and it tasted good! It was then that realised I was actually liking this culinary culture shock!
Yet, like I true-blue bong I need something sweet after every meal and after this onslaught of garlic, I was desperate for some. Pushkar is a strictly vegan town and hence all the baked items are sans egg. But, that has not been able to dampen the spirits of the Pushkarites and ‘German bakeries’ (I have got absolutely no idea what is so ‘German’ about them) can be discerned on every nook and corner of the hamlet.
I settled down for Funky Monkey. The pies and pastries looked absolutely yum and irresistible as did the owner of the place (a tall, handsome guy with a perfect tan…definitely not an Asian)! I went for an apple pie and it was a mouthful of heaven-- fresh from oven, with a perfect golden brown crust and smoooooth apples…the way to a woman’s heart is definitely through her tongue!
After this hearty brunch I headed for the Brahma temple (the locals claim this as the only seat of Brahma in India) and the fair ground. Like all temples it was crowded to the core but, strangely enough, unlike other such holy place, it did not overwhelm me with its overt spirituality and overzealous touts. After crossing the Brahma temple a few minutes walk took me to a different world. I was confronted by a vast expanse of dusty desert brimming with camels, horses, snake-charmers, gypsies, kalbelia dancers, folksingers and masala chaewalas. I am not much into tea but when in Pushar, you can’t possibly miss out on a cuppa-- the first sip and I can almost feel my teeth tatter with sweetness and sugar crystals forming in my brain! I tackled the tea like tequila shots and downed the whole thing in three gulps. As I neared the fair ground a strange announcement on a primitive version of a michrophone; “Sola baras ki kamsin kali ko phool bante dekhiye” and the ticket counter was overflowing with over-enthusiastic villagers. Although curiosity is often blamed to be the sole reason for the deaths of cats I have never been much of a catty person myself. Hence, I went for it. And they actually showed what they promised! A young girl dressed in black got into a front open black box waving and smiling…the lights dimmed and the girl ducked inside and a bunch of plastic flowers appeared where she was standing. And you have the girl bloom into a flower indeed!
Sunset and Ghar ka khana with Kasturji Bhopa and family
It was around 6 in the evening, the darkness was slowly rising from the horizon and smudging off the orange hues left by the sunset, the antics of the sombre-looking camels were turning into silhouettes before melting into the night, and I was sitting outside Kasturji’ Bhopa’s tiny shack amid the desert eating home-made bajre ki roti right off the oven and lahsun ki chutni and it was one of the most delicious platters I have ever had! After a while, Kasturji picked up his Ravanhatta and started playing. Soon he was joined by his 11-year old daughter Sumitra. Her raw, bold voice and shy, innocent smile made me fall in love with her almost instantaneously!
Curiouser and curiouser...Special Lassi, Piewala, Kikasso and the didgeridoo
Half past 7 in the evening. There was a nip in the air and I was sitting on one of the ‘less spiritual’ ghaats that circumambulate the holy lake, with a bottle of mineral water filled with ‘special’ lassi (Bhang in curd) and a box-full of melt-in the mouth malpuas. Some gulps, a few bites, a couple of drags and Absolute BLISS! The diyas on the stairs flickered, went out of focus, came back, flickered some more and slowly burned out. It was getting colder. I walked out of the time warp and headed back to the cacophony of the street-- sounds of conch shells, prayer hymns and bells harmonized with gurbaani, and azaan, along with an occasional ravanhatta or a guitar. Amid this soundscape I discerned a strange low droning sound which was very musical in a weird way…and the source of the sound was a brightly painted “Didgeridoo Shop-free lessons, free healing” and I was stumped again! Now wasn’t this supposed to be an Australian aboriginal instrument? Indeed, when in Pushkar, anything is possible.
I sat on the steps and listened to the sombre music for some time before heading towards my hotel. Near Gau ghaat I came across a typical Rajasthani man clad in dhoti and shirt replete with a huge pagdi and moustache selling pies from a thela. Apparently, he lives in a nearby village and is selling pies in Pushkar for almost a decade now. All that bhang and then the didgeridoo and now this-I’m tired of being surprised. As hungry as I was, I sampled around five of them and all tasted fresh and yum (even if a bit Pushkarized as everything else!).
But, the day was not yet done with me, and so, next I bumped into Kikasso “Born, Live Pushkar, Love to Work Pushkar.”! I couldn’t help but ask the old, serious-looking sardarji if that was his real name. Well, he was sardar Kishan Singh Munawat, a Picasso-inspired self-styled impressionist, he told me in a very matter-of-fact voice and did I say I was tired of being surprised!
Pink Floyd Café…Follow the signs!
My mind was soggy with experiences and I desperately needed to unwind. So, I started for the Pink Floyd Café and it seemed in Pushkar all the roads, lanes and by-lanes lead to this café. All I had to do is follow the signs (which I was getting better at deciphering). Within 15 mins I was in front of a very ordinary-looking house with an extraordinarily big banner shouting ‘Pink Floyd Café-Wish you were here’ A flight of stairs and I was indeed ‘there’ and already totally impressed with the graffiti and the décor. The place had rooms named after famous Floyd songs (Fancy a night on ‘The Dark Side of the Moon’!) but in-keeping with the true spirit of Pushkar, the music that was playing was some kind of a trance and the huge poster that greets you as you reach the café is not of Floyd but of Shiva-the owner of the place! I made myself comfortable on the rug by the window that opened into a breath-taking view of a dimly-lit city. But it is the rooftop that was the sanctum sanctorum of this ‘haloed’ café and when I climbed up, it was just beginning to get cosy with its visitors under a blanket of mellow psychedelic lights, trance music and ‘holy’ smoke.
Afterthought
Four days in this strange land and I was already feeling at home. There are neither any conventional ‘tourist spots’ nor any ‘to do list’ for Pushkar, and yet with its laidback ‘mundaneness’ it made me fall in love with it. It seemed like in Hecate’s cauldron, it boils in the weirdest of ingredients and creates a spell on people compelling them to return to its magic year after year.

The reluctant ‘Animal Lover’ (Bandhavgarh)

A gush of cold air on my nose and then a voice calling from some faraway land: Wake up sleepyhead we have reached! I hate cold nose especially if the nose happens to be mine and I HATE the word ’Wake Up’. I checked my watch and it was 10 past 3 in the morning. I pulled myself up from the backseat of the car. So, finally we are at Bandhavgarh!
Till then my escapades were confined to family trips to whom the wildest thing on this planet was me and hence they never felt the need to travel for a rendezvous with wilderness.
But this was different! I had just finished my Masters and started earning and was staying away from my parents and my city and had got my first tattoo. This was my first self-sponsored trip, my first trip without my parents and my first trip to a forest!
Aviroop was saying something about tiger sightings and morning safaris but I couldn’t care less, all I wanted was a warm bed. The manager was kind enough to have kept our food in the room. We hogged like hungry hyenas (I am not sure if hyenas ever get that hungry though but then anything for a good alliteration! ) and went off to sleep with pullovers, socks, gloves, cap et al. Around 5 am we got a wakeup call…we are supposed to go for a jungle safari! I was an ‘animal lover’ till it was confined to male Homo sapiens and I am certainly not the sort to lose my sleep over love.
However, with a lot of determination and courage I ‘unblanketed’ myself and the moment I stepped out of the room I could feel my pores freeze one at a time--it was 2 degrees! As I looked out, the silhouettes of the trees standing tall against the cloudless sky had a mystical glow on them, the moon was still visible but had started to lose its sheen, there was mist rising from the ground—it all seemed straight from a dream sequence. We wrapped the winter night over us and hopped onto the open jeep.
Apart from a very cheerful driver, we had a forest guard to keep us company. He told us that Bandhavgarh is the best place to see tiger as it boasts a very high density of the striped beast. Also, the tigers of Bandhavgarh are Natgeo and Discovery channel regulars and love being ogled at!
It was still too dark for a ‘sighting’. However, that didn’t stop an overenthusiastic Aviroop from discerning a striped fellow every now and then. As for me, I was too mesmerized by the beauty of the sepia-toned forest and intoxicated by the smell of the dew-drenched foliage.
The night died a slow death imbuing life into the forest and as the mist started to lift its cover we spotted quite a few other inhabitants of the forest- Nilgais, Chausinghas, Chitals, Chinkaras, Langurs, Monkeys, Wild Boars- if some were sucker for limelight and kept posing for photos, the others were too camera shy, whereas some simply chose ignore us—I had never imagined these creatures to be this endearing even outside Disney!
However, it was almost four hours and the god of 'sightings' was yet to smile upon us. All we had were a host of ‘false alarms’ in the form of langur and chital ‘calls.’ Unlike Aviroop, I had no fixation for tigers (till then) and was lapping up each smell, sound, sight of this new experience. But, finally the news came! There has been a ‘sighting’! The next few minutes were like a chase scene from a Bond movie. It was a mad race to be the first to reach the spot for the best ‘view’ and our jeep was the third to arrive. We got down and climbed an *elephant to take us closer to the tiger. Ours was a two-seater baby elephant with absolutely no manners and not an ounce of interest in tigers--all he seemed to care about were fresh leaves which he kept on munching. But, when we finally we reached the spot; my heart almost skipped a beat‑‑ there were four of them! Nestled in the bushes a doting mom and her three playful cubs feasting on a wild boar! It was one of the goriest sights I had come across and yet it was so breathtakingly beautiful! I instantly realised why Aviroop was obsessed with these creatures and what made William Blake write "What immortal hand or eye dare frame thy fearful symmetry?" If Michelangelo has his David, and Cezanne has his apples, Mr. God surely has the tigers!
Aviroop was still engrossed in the tigress and her cubs when I spotted a large full-grown tiger walking by. It had the gait of royalty and looked every bit like the king of the jungle. And it was so close to us that I almost stopped breathing and with as little movement as possible, I adjusted my camera and managed a perfect frame. I was about to press the shutter, when all of a sudden I heard a whisper in my ear: ‘Hey I love you! How about not being ‘just friends’ anymore? ’
Ahh what a perfect timing! I felt like bludgeoning him with a sledge hammer. “Do you realise I just missed my masterpiece because of you?” I was furious.
“Ah, that would be a yes then,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice and shifted his attention back from the lioness to the tigress. I somehow managed to stop myself from pushing him off the elephant.
However, while on our way back to the resort, as the warmth of the morning sun started to thaw my anger I realized I was in love as well. I was in love with the free-spirited wild animals and their antics, the first rays of sun piercing through the trees, the heady smell of the wet woods, the terrible beauty of the tiger, and also somewhat with the tiger-obsessed Aviroop!


*Elephant safaris are now banned in Bandhavgarh.

Wilderness!!!

These empty shoes are full of travel plans...

Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed,
and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel…
- Ulysses


It was Friday and I had just returned from a hectic day at office, another weekend was beckoning me into his lazy arms. Suddenly the spirit of Ulysses possessed me and I decided that I had had enough of measuring the weekend with wine glasses, enough of this epicurean, lotus-eater's life and seriously needed a break.
Well, what followed next was whirlwind packing and off I went to spend my weekend in the laps of nature!
As the Darjeeling Mail reached New Jalpaiguri (NJP) station at around 8.30 am, I was still contemplating on whether to go to my good old Darjeeling or try out some new option. And Ulysses came to the rescue again and I resisted the temptation of relishing an English breakfast at Keventers and opted for Jaldapara instead. After a teeth-tattering, bumpy ride through a collage of assorted potholes when I finally reached my destination, it was almost 11.30. I had no booking anywhere, but kept my fingers crossed and the Jaldapara Tourist Lodge did not disappoint me. After some lazing around and grabbing a quick brunch, I headed straight for the evening jeep safari.
Kissing the foot of the Bhutan hills, Jaldapara Wild Life Sanctuary was established in 1941 and is famous for the Great Indian One Horned Rhinos. This 216 sq km of deciduous forest is a montage of woods, grasslands, swamps and streams and is checkered by rivers like Torsa, Budhi Torsa, Hollong, Chirakhawa, Malangi, Kalijhora, Bhaluka and Sissamara. The sanctuary boasts an impressive population of fauna with 33 species of mammals, 240 species of birds, 16 species of reptiles, 30 species of fishes and eight species of turtles.
As my jeep roved through the splendid forest of Jaldapara, the smell of the dense foliage engulfed my senses. The jeep safari is a two-hour one and includes two watchtowers. From the top of the towers vast sheathes of grasslands could be seen. I spotted a slender peacock catwalk the ramp of the forest flaunting its long magnificent tail.

When I reached the second watchtower, the sun was signing out for the day leaving behind an orange hue. On my way back I had a rendezvous with two young elephants and their doting mothers.The mild growl of the engine of our car was enough to scare the youngest of the lot, and the cute and clumsy young thing scurried under his mother's belly, the safest place on earth known to him.
Next morning was the elephant safari. With the crack of dawn I reached Holong from where the safari starts and climbed onto one of the elephants. The virgin forest wrapped in the blanket of morning mist greeted us as our elephant passed through miles of elephant grass (they are called elephant grass as they grow taller than elephants).
During the one-hour safari we spotted a group of playful bisons, a rather grumpy looking rhino, a solitary and serious sambar and dozens of proud peacocks. It is virtually impossible to navigate these areas without an Elephant. It was sheer luck that I managed a room in the much coveted Holong bungalow; the same breathtakingly beautiful bungalow where Aparna Sen's Mr and Mrs Iyer spent that eventful night together.
If one has to feel the splendor the jungles exude at night, there can hardly be any better place than this solitary forest bungalow. There is a narrow stream that runs just next to the bungalow and just across that is a salt lick. At night elephants, bisons, rhinos come down from the jungle to lick the salt. Beyond the salt lick, the forest starts getting dense and as the night descends and the last rays of the sun start to fade out, an eerie feeling creeps in. It was well past midnight, and I was well settled in the cozy screechy bed, when suddenly the guards called; some rhinos are spotted in the salt lick. And what awaited me was an experience of a lifetime; under star-studded canopy of the night sky the guard showed me the ghostly, gray, silhouettes of two rhinos with the help of his flashlight.
As the night dawned into day it was time for me to bid adieu to this mystical forest of Jaldapara. This brief intercourse with nature had soothed all my senses and filled my lungs with enough fresh air to act as a breather for atleast a few months in the claustrophobia of the humdrum city life.