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Journalism of Courage
For a Bengali, the year comprises of two parts — Durga Pujo and waiting for Durga Pujo, and let no one tell you differently. The days of Pujo are when families come together, Bengal comes alive like none other and everything else forgotten but the festivities around the Goddess. This special issue gives you a glimpse at the various facets around Ma Durga, and how she changes our lives.
Durga Puja, we understood, was about the slaying of Mahishasur. We knew that Durga was formed from the energies of all the gods — Shiva’s face, Vishnu’s arms, Agni’s eyes. We were told her weapons came from those gods as well — Shiva’s trident, Vishnu’s discus, Agni’s mace, Vishwakarma’s axe.
But more important than all that was the fact that Durga was coming home. Her children were coming to their mother’s home, their mamar bari, where mothers relaxed and children got a respite from homework. (Read more)
Like the suitcases, Gurudeb and Kwality ice cream, the pujo sankhya (“puja issue”) or puja barshiki (“puja annual”) forms part of the mental universe of every educated middle-class Bengali, especially those who call, or once called, Kolkata home. An enduring memory is waiting for the puja barshikis to arrive and then fighting with sundry siblings and cousins to get one’s hands on the latest Kakababu or Bantul or whatever before anyone else. (Read More)
Vegetarian won’t do? Then make a beeline for the fish rolls — a delectable preparation of spiced shrimp rolled up in fillets of bhetki and then crumb fried — fried chicken, mutton chops, braised cutlets and believe it or not, Chinese chaat. Keep some space for the king among all Bengali snacks, though — the jumbo prawn cutlet. New additions to the Bengali puja food scene are momos, burgers, pizzas and hotdogs. Good food never went to waste in Bengal, no matter where their roots lie. (Read More)
Because the Kolkata puja is always about the street, its avenues and bylanes a portal that, for five nights only, transports all celebrants into wonderland. The traffic snarls untangle themselves, the bamboo barricades create effective walkways, the food stalls do brisk business. Romance writes itself over the mangshor chop at Mitra Cafe, hearts break with a bite of the chicken cutlet at Campari. At Arsalan, the biryani runs out by midnight but the takers still line up, at Zeeshan, they smile and offer the sparkly teenagers onion rolls. (Read More)
Versions of the Ramayana in Urdu — in prose and poetry, and as transliterations, transcreations and translations — have been appearing since Urdu gained popularity several centuries ago. According to a comprehensive study of Ram kathan in Urdu by the late Ali Jawad Zaidi, there were over 300 such versions, many from the Awadh region alone, and several written in the style of marsiya-goi popularised by Anees and Dabeer. (Read More)
The bearded puppet of Dronacharya is killed soon after whispering actors fill the stage with murmurs of Ashwatthama’s death. “Why does Dronacharya lay down his weapons and refuse to fight after hearing that his son was dead? Did he know Ashwatthama was chiranjeevi because he had the boon of immortality?” asks the narrator. The questions hang in the air, as they do in many Sillakeyata performances. “Was Dronacharya tired of the war? Does he think, ‘If the Pandavas can use Ashwatthama as a rumour, I can use him as an excuse’?,” says Roy. (Read More)
