Identity

There is a Durga Puja pandal right below my parents' fourth floor apartment in Kolkata. During the days of Puja, it is near impossible to hear what my parents are saying if I call them in the evening. The sound of the dhak drowns everything out. Thankfully, it also brings conversation to the minimum because these days the moment I hear it, there is a catch in my voice that my parents would find hard to miss and harder to forget.

It's quite strange actually. I haven't grown up around Durga Puja and don't start sighing about the 'chill in the wind and nip in the air' like most people who have grown up in Calcutta are likely to do, come end September/early October. I have rarely ever 'gone home' for the Pujas.

But these days I do miss it. I miss the fact that I don't go out rushing to buy new clothes the moment Puja arrives, because mostly I don't remember. My mom reminds me and though this year I bought clothes for the monkey, usually I lie to her and say yes because it will make her feel good. It helps that there's always something in my wardrobe that's not been worn. Not a case of too many clothes, just too many bad buys.

I don't have too many Durga Puja memories. At least not many in Kolkata. There was one when all cousins and uncles got together, piled into a van and visited all the famous Pujas. Then there was one that took place in my aunt's almost-crumbling ancestral house. And several years back, my homesick parents turning on the radio for the early morning Mahalaya.

The later day memories are all outside Calcutta. In Orissa, where I met the school crush (not sadly on Orkut, ha ha); in a very Bollywood style Andheri Puja that I'd visit with my friend mainly to eat Bhog; similar one in Vasant Kunj, again with friend, again for Bhog. It was something you did not only to assert your Bongness, please your parents, etc but also because it was there and it was part of your culture. For me, it didn't get bigger than that.

So I really don't know where the catch in the throat comes from these days. It probably has to do with the fact that I am sometimes a bit lost when it comes to the identity part. I come from a very Bengali family but I grew up all over the place and was encouraged to make friends with everyone, never forced to learn Rabindra Sangeet (Thanks God and Mother) or memorize Abol Tabol though I loved it, as I love Feluda, every self respecting Bong girl's literary crush in youth. When I decided to get married to a non-Bong, my dad's biggest worry was that his family doesn't eat non-veg, not that they were another very different community. Honest :)

It probably has to do with the fact that I have a child now (Aqua, sounds familiar?). And this is his heritage too, even if partially. So I try to chip in bits and parts, may be a song here and there, speaking to him in Bengali when we are alone and taking him for the obligatory visit to the Puja Pandal (We'll see the famous Ulsoor Durga Puja this year, I have announced to P), even though he is too small to remember anything. And then I realize: Help, this is my mom all over again!

PS: Now that I am reading through it, there are too many alien words in the post for someone not familiar with the strange world of Bongdom. Too lazy to link them all up to explanations now. Bherry Sorry.

I always find it funny that my bookshelf in the living room gets such diverse comments. A very close friend who lives next door and drops in every other day notices only the chick lit variety and makes disparaging noises. He pointedly ignores the slightly more serious stuff kept right next to it. Then again, maybe pointedly is the wrong word because we only see what we want to see. A very classy and well-travelled colleague of my husband was very surprised at the collection of Bill Brysons and sportingly admitted that he didn't think I would enjoy that kind of humour.
Anyway, I find the comments and comparisons both funny and surprising because I don't have a big bookshelf or anything. Compared to some people I know my collection is a tiny one. I keep most of my books in a spare cupboard. The one in the living room is a small shelf that the man designed when he was 16 and refuses to give up. I've been wondering whether I should shift it to another room but it looks best there. I often do mean things like put in a lot of Georgette Heyers and the Shopaholic series just before some serious types come home and wait for the reaction. Yes, I may not have time for updating posts but I do have time for absurd stuff. So the bookshelf stays on because more than anything, I love the comments and reactions that it gets out of visitors. If not all, at least from some of them.

Why waste words when a picture will do

The holiday was amazing. Not just for the place but also for the complete lack of any communication with the world. No TV, no phones (unless you have a BSNL connection) and no newspapers. Just a lot of crystal clear aqua-blue-green sea, white sands unlittered by crushed bisleri bottles and ice-cream sticks and a lot of silence. :)