“…the rain patters on the new leaves of summer,/the tremor of the crickets’ chirp troubles the shade of the tree,/the river overflows its bank washing the village meadows/My heart dances…” Thus goes verse 40 of the world-renowned Gitanjali.
Historian Uma Das Gupta once wrote that Rabindranath Tagore, arguably Bengal’s most renowned poet and author, may have often stayed in a houseboat on the Padma River, which is one of the main channels of the Ganges, in close contact with villages. It would rain heavily due to cyclones in the Bay of Bengal and the southwest monsoon, which would often flood the river.
To draw parallels in his poetry with his possibly lived experience may verge on assuming an author’s intentions, which any literary critic worth their salt would caution against. But there is something to be said about the power of imagined scenery, taken from a pictorial view of nature. In the throes of climate change, this power has become a problem for Bengali bhadralok, who are not as quick to recognise Tagore’s verbal commitment to helping village residents and eradicating poverty. After Cyclone Amphan in 2020, aside from some aid projects and collectives, talk of safeguarding Bengal against rain soon died down; amid the pandemic, perhaps understandably.
Rain, in Bengal’s literature that is compellingly quoted so often, often spans metaphors of foreboding, love, humanity, loneliness. What will it take for metaphors to reach their own carriers?
In May 2020, a few months into the pandemic beginning to expose the (dis)abilities of the healthcare system, Cyclone Amphan swept Bengal off its toes, cutting power, felling trees. At least, it swept the toes of those who did not live in pucca houses, or those who could not afford to repair their cars, or really, most people upon whom the financial burden of a household was not imposed. For others who were already sequestered in their homes, it inspired photographs of cha-pakora, artfully lit by a lone streetlight outside or a candle. For more still, it evoked the above quoted words of Tagore themselves, and reminded them of a life beyond their four walls: Floods on the ground floor became a video-call topic.
Yet, in the September 23 rain — Kolkata’s sixth-highest level of rainfall in recorded history — this nostalgia was quite notably absent. No longer constrained by Covid as they were during Amphan, the Bengali elite have chosen to focus on another central aspect of their rich culture: Durga Puja pandal hopping.
Reports have emerged of the wide-spanning themes of pandals this year, as they do every year: Some are fiercely political, acknowledging loss, violence, discrimination. But how can we Bengalis claim that Puja transcends religion and social barriers, if these themes are limited to our state’s art? When death is mere feet away? In all likelihood, the deceased will be remembered as people who accidentally touched an iron rod, or crossed the wrong road.
Durga Puja is a time close to most Bengalis’ hearts; that is a given. But is Kolkata really only a city of joy? Does this tagline capture the wilful ignorance that most pandal hoppers will have towards the locations they will not cross?
It’s ironic: During Cyclone Amphan, Kumartuli workshops and temporary pandal sites were waterlogged, and artisans were forced into costly repair; but not much attention was paid then. Before that, Cyclone Aila in 2009 left hundreds homeless, as did every other major catastrophe involving rain in Bengal’s history.
The very spectacle that we look forward to every year depends on those most exposed to Bengal’s floods. Those who erect joy for others live closest to loss.
While a court case ensues over compensation, and jobs for the families of the deceased, it is beyond time that we began to discuss the vast throes of nature beyond romanticising them. We have to address them materially, rather than as idyllic scenes that we choose to enter and exit at our luxury.
poulomi.deb@expressindia.com
