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Journalism of Courage
Its difficult to be born an agnostic in a middle-class Bengali family in Kolkata. Even more difficult to turn into one early in life unless something earth shattering has struck your childhood. If you have been dragged around pandals during Durga Puja,dutifully muttering your gratitude and your pass-me-in-math wish-list before thakur,you would know what I am talking about.
And unless you had the most bohemian parents in the world,you wouldnt be found loitering anywhere near Patuapara. Patuapara,for the uninitiated,was a hub of creative activity and used to be abuzz with patuas (artisans who painted scenes from stories and fables on earthen plates) in the past. Its a pale shadow of its former self now. With the patuas long gone,the para has turned into a dingy urban mess over the last few decades. Shacks fighting for space,serpentine cues at the tubewell and men bathing noisily around the roadside have taken over the quaint artistic hub for the patuas. Around this time of the year,however,a different sight can be seen in the concrete jungle. While the patuas might have made a quiet exit,the winding lane is home to several artisans. Artisans who take to the clay and paint only before the Kali Puja. And a walk down the lane around this time of the year is probably an agnostics dream come true.
Its not that we have spent vacations talking to the idols in didas thakurghor,but desperation and desire have strange ways of finding answers for themselves. The thakur-fearing-doting-cursing Bengali worm inside our head being one of them.
Its just that when you see your favourite thakur trying to stand straight between dakini-joginis (more expensive cousins of the scarecrow precisely) and vying for the same blonde wig in the artisans hand,you wish you had your high school chemistry score in better hands!
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