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Journalism of Courage
Sashay is such a beautiful word. An approximation of sorts,but beautiful nonetheless. More so,when you appropriate it to the dramatic shuffle of feet that lead Ma Durga to her watery abode. The sweat and blood of the labouring mortals who carry her on their shoulders may dribble into the mud and slush of the ghats,but she sashays her way to the Ganga.
Meanwhile,the ghats are rife with a schizophrenically impassioned celebration. Its a celebration which oscillates between almost animal-like abandonment and nostalgia-hued mellowness. Portly men in sweat-drenched kurtas wriggle their hips to the dhak,as their vermilion streaked wives in garod saris smile indulgently. Foreigners in three-quarters capture the sights and the sounds in their handycams,while scrawny kids in ragged knickers wait patiently beside them to collect the clothings and ornaments of the immersed idol.
Asche bochchor abar hobe Surely its more than just a mnemonic gesture,her sashaying to the Ganga? It has to be a metaphor. Of lifes cycle maybe?
Yes,at the heart of this five-day celebration lies a simple story of circularity. The idol,moulded out of clay scooped out from these very ghats,finds its way to banks of the Ganga. Her adornments,the bamboo skeleton are to be filtered out by those who make fringe-living out of this procedure. How exquisitely beautiful is this story. How poignant is Ma Durgas yearly rise from the banks of Ganga and eventual submission to it.
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