Mahalaya The mobile, as presetted in the night before, beeped in the early morning as the magical voice of Sri Birendrakrishna Bhadra through the loudspeakers of Hirapur vibrated the air, “Aswiner sharodo pratay……….” .The managing committee of Durgamandir in Hirapur, the Bengali dominant locality, must have arranged for loudspeakers to enhance the joy of festival at doorsteps. Wife had already switched on the system and the known songs of Mahalaya with voice of Chandipath of Sri Birendrakrisna Bhadra filled the room. By the time the Gods took refuge of Brahma, Vishnu & Mahadeva to create the Goddess for saving them from oppression of Mahisasur, I, as a ritual, gradually drifted back into slumber. Through several layers of sleep, floating above me, I heard my late father calling,” Bachchu! Bachchu! Wake up. Won’t you listen to Mahalaya? See already your brother is wake. Come on! Get up.” Drowned in sleep I could hardly hear the bizarre recitations of verses in Sanskrit……….. ……..The courtyard of the centuries old house at Katwa, with the well at the centre, the separate baithakkhana (Drawing room) beside the entrance, the kitchen with the two huge coal chulas on the floor , the two huge earthen vessels(jalas) for storage of drinking water in a room in the ground floor, the high steps leading to upstairs and roof top, the iron rod railing of verandah with small iron pillars, the successive shadows of the iron railings on the floor of verandah flanked by the soft orange sunlight of a morning of autumn, the huge roof top connected with the roof top of neighboring sacra(Goldsmith) dadu’s house, the exposed small mud bricks where the plaster had peeled off, the tulsi mancha, Picima’s small garden of marigold with the suli tree in full bloom in the courtyard, the roof on wooden karibarga above the slow rotating ceiling fan, the smell of the ancient house, the puja mandap of Koichor, our ancestral village, with the vast rice fields all around….. all floated in. Unlike most of you up to Class IX, I never spend the Puja in Calcutta. Egar wait round the year to visit my grand parents at Katwa, a sub divisional town in Burdwan district of West Bengal where grandfather was a lawyer and my third uncle was lecturer with Katwa College. From there to Koichor, our ancestral village, to attend the age old puja of family. Astami puja, commonly known as Astami pala, had to be performed by my grandfather as per family settlement. Scuffles with the unions for bonus up to Sasti kept sanction of leave of my father always a suspense. At last in the eve of Sasti, back home, when he announced “Katwa & Koichor - the next morning”, our joy knew no bounds. In the evening, lying turtle on the bed above, it was a fun to observe parents on the floor packing suitcases. In, went my new dresses and the new clothes brought for others at Katwa. Next morning, as the taxi headed from Remembrance Day statue towards Aksbani Bhawan, small groups went with dhak and kasar towards Ganges to get Kolabou bathed. Some groups were on return through the other footpath. Fighting with eldie & younger brother for a window seat in 33up Farakka passenger is as if yesterday. At Hoogly mejo kaka, kakima with two brothers would entrain. Their eldest is my age. A fun to find him in. Past bandal, at Agradip or Samudragarh, one sweetmeat vendor, Bhojohori uncle, definitely would come with his dekchi containing rajbhogs, kanchagolla and danadar. To our astonishment he used to call father and uncle by their nicknames and addressed them ‘tui’. They were known to him from their college days when they commuted to and fro from Kolkata in weekends. The bumpy rickshaw ride beside the kachari(court) to Khorobazzar beside Ganges was unending. But as the rickshaw entered the side lane to our house my heart beat doubled for fear of Nawadip pagol, who resided in the ruins of a manor next door. During the period of Nawabs, his ancestors were very rich. In stream of time the opulence washed away leaving the last candle nothing but the ruins. When we were old enough to speed past their house to buy crackers or aluchops, he sat on the broken marble stair of his house with a vacant look focused on the wall opposite to search for a key that will unlock his hey days. Years later Picima told me that abject poverty forced his wife to dessert him when we were not born. Morning, as I leaned against the iron railing, the orange rays and clear blue sky greeted me. The chillness of air and its freshness erased my sleep softly. Looking down I saw, Picima, after bath, was picking suli flowers below the tree for her morning puja. From Gouranga bari , kirtan “Bhojo Gouranga,….” floated in. Such serenity…., such calmness…. And so different from mornings in Calcutta. A labyrinth of smoke from the kitchen below rose up and up, to fade against the blue sky above. Fascinated I stood spellbound. Grandfather stepped out on the courtyard and Thakuma(Grandmother) handed him two huge bags. “ Kiray Bachchu! Bazzar jabi naki?” and I hopped after him. The breakfast on the dordallan(hall) of ground floor was a fun. All seven of us sat on moras to be handed with a kansa (gunmetal?) thali which had muri, murki, elojhelo(twisted goja), narkel naru, sirir naru and aluchop. When I grew old enough to walk past Nabadip Pagla’s house alone, I was trusted with the responsibility to get alu chop from nearby Madan Moira’s shop. Murki used to be finished at once for running behind grandmother,” Oh Thakuma, another elojhelo please”. Our youngest uncle lead us everywhere from the banks of Ganges, Mrigen Sadhu’s ashram, Gouranga bari, Ram mandir of Metiari, a hamlet, on other bank of Ganges, and to Katwa fort. Sometimes Picima used to take us to her samity near Gouranga bari. The vibrating Chandipath of Sri Birendra Krishna Bhadra took me across the streets of Katwa in the evening, with all the family members, for protima darsan in Mullick bari and Saha bari , the century old business families of Katwa. The Fort like gate opened in the courtyard in which the dhakis used to play endlessly as the scented white smoke of dhuna faded the backdrop. The big chandelier illuminated the entire courtyard. The surrounding walls of the century old building gleamed bluish white and smelled of fresh white wash. Old Mallick mosai, with a pair of snow white mustache, greeted my grandfather in and asked my father to take us all inside the house for another round of sweets and narus. Through the smoke of dhunuchi I had a gleam of the aakchaler Protima with all her children, asura and of course the lion. As layers of sleep thinned, I could hear killing of demon in progress. Ma was taking different rups and Asura was playing his tricks. With replenishment, the narrow gauge train to Koichor in the predawn hours of Astomi puffed very clear. Koichor, at last! No platforms ! The big banyan tree overlooked the station masters room. The station master, Nanda jethu, a few years my father’s senior in Kashiram Das High school, Katwa, came out all dressed in white and his duty cap with his torch with glass painted green. “ Come! Come! The bullockcarts are ready”. Stacked in two bullock carts we headed for chati, the bus stop on Katwa- Burdwan route. The lantrans beneath the carts dangled. At Koichor Chati all seven of us and male members jumped out to take the shortcut through the “aal”(raised embankment in-between two paddy fields) while the bullock carts took the circuitous mud road to the village. Ran! Ran! Ran! Ran! Through the vast rice fields on either side! In the twilight of day break all around was Sangri-La! Paddy fields all over your eyes could stretch! Small water courses flowed from one paddy field to another in which tiny fishes showed courage to swim anti-current. By the time we reached the post office at the entrance to village, the soft orange rays of the morning sun had painted the village vermillion. The sound of dhol from our Chandimandap greeted us. The Chandimandap was almost empty barring a few of family elders and thakur mosai, whose family through generations is our kulopurohit. All of us, after performing pronam , were flanked by kakimas and picimas. “Oh! Ma! Koto boro hoay gechish!” was the standard note. As leaves gradually shed, few are left to note the difference today! Grandfather after bath took his position beside Purohit jathamosai. The bullock carts had arrived. The ladies busied themselves to arrange for Astomi Puja. A quick bath in the tube well of our home. No food upto Anjali ! After prasad, leaving the sandals home, ran through the vast rice fields behind our house. The green paddy fields, with pecks of white kash, extended across the eyesight to meet the horizon where the bright blue sky with white floating clouds had lowered itself. Looking back we saw our house at the end of the village reduced to a dot. Our courage to proceed further evaporated! The shrill sound of cricket gradually suppressed the sound of chirping birds! Far in the horizon ahead a few tiny black puffs appeared which gradually rose in air. The narrow gauge down train from Burdwan grew and grew to become a caterpillar. The engine and the coaches grew bigger and bigger and the train crossed from one horizon to another with the romantic rhythm of puffing of steam engine. Once in one dove crying afternoon, Purohitjethu showed me my position in the family tree in a long Kherokhata covered with a red cloth. One Raja Bhallo Singh, may be a soldier with Maharaja of Burdwan, was stated to be originator of family as far as recorded history goes. Clear history is available from Ramchandra Roy onwards, a dewan with Jamindars of Nigan, a village, a few kilometers away. Then Pratap Chandra Roy, head master of Nigan School. He was followed by Gopesanonda Roy, my father’s grandfather, who served as station master in various stations of Sealdah - Budge budge route. I had seen his wife , Boroma, in Koichor. Then my Grandfather, Bhawananda Roy. Thereafter my father’s name Brojeswar Roy followed by names of my brothers and me. For unknown reasons I felt pride and happiness to find my name that khata. The evenings of Koichor Chandimandap, was as if in some imagined land, far and far away. The daker saaz of Durga murti glittered in the hanging lights of Petromax and Hazaks. Amids the hissing sounds of Hazaks and rhythms of dhol, Purohit jethu used to perform Sandha Aroti. Completed with swinging of pancho pradip, korpur, dhup, dhuna, panisankho, gamocha and chamor, the aroti used to come to an end. With all others Picima stood against one pillar, all engrossed, with her sight somewhere beyond the image of Durga! Her bright red bindi sparkled in her forehead! During her last days Picima stopped speaking for reasons unknown. As the Arati ended the youngsters were summoned for food. One the verandah of ground floor, the series of Padmapata in a perspective, in front of folded stretched satranjees, was visible in faint light of lanterns. As I sat on satranjee, I observed the big water droplet on the padmapata which rolled with slightest vibration, even with the vibration created by footsteps of kakimas who served food. The lanterns casted long shadows of human figures on the wall to create an eerie atmosphere which was paranormal. The occasional call of the jackals at a distance and the darkness all around made the surroundings ethereal. I missed my bedroom at Lake gardens. As the faint voice of Birendrakinshna Bhadra, from distance infinite, described the fierce war between Devi and the demon , Ramchandra Roy, Pratap Chandra Roy, Gopesanando Roy, Boroma, Dadu,Thakuma, Baba, Picima, Chotokaka walked my head. All of whom, after playing their part for my childhood, had left. The news of death of my grandmother reached me in early days of STD when I was in Jaduguda. Dadu suffered single life for few years more and went away. A couple of years later my father chose to be a photograph in our drawing room. Chotokaku in 2009 rang me one evening expressing his earnest desire to meet me. He passed away next week when I applied for leave. Picima died one winter evening in Koichor while listening to Kirtan. Oh! My ancerstors, for you what I am today. Today, in the last day of Pitripakshya and as Devi pakshya begins , I offer my sincere homage to you. My homage to Bhajohari uncle, Brindabon Pagol , Mullick mosai, Madan moira, Nanda jethu and all others who painted my childhood with all treasures ! Definitely my homage to my childhood, who had passed away long back, to leave me naked among wolves! Hey! Ma Durga ! In this auspicious occasion of Mahalaya I pray you to descend on earth and annihilate our misery and give us strength adequate to face any turbulence! Happy Durga Puja to u all. "Ya devi sarbabhuteshshu, sakti rupena sanksthita Namasteshwai Namasteshwai Namasteshwai namo namaha."
Posted on: Fri, 04 Oct 2013 08:00:39 +0000
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