Strange Tales Stranger Truths

Going to Norway in June

2010-08-22T10:48:00.009+05:30

Just come and breathe in Scandinavia.

And I booked myself on the Finnair flight (leaves at pretty decent hour – 8.30 am from Delhi). Settling myself in, I looked appreciatively at the miniscule movie screen in front. I, who watches no more than one movie a year, settled down to tick mark Wake up Sid and Avatar while munching on a bit too large a breakfast for so early in the morning

Breakfast was interrupted by a magnificent view and the steward checked his watch and said Afghanistan.

Eight hours later, eyes blurry from all that tv and hypoglycaemia (Finnair disgorged us at Helsinki airport with a muffin in hand and great views of theBaltic Sea) I negotiated endless kilometres of corridors trying to locate my terminal. A lovely airport and I am sure the city is as lovely but as my friends put it ‘Helsinki? Why waste your time and money and energy there when you could be spending it inNorway?’

The odd giggle, the cans of reindeer soup, furs and other exotica, watching the younger and the older age groups being subjected to intensive frisking while I simply breezed through. The forties are a comfortable age to be in.

Helsinki Oslo is a half an hour flight that warrants nothing more than a glass of juice. The aircraft flies fairly low offering a google earth view of twisting rivers, the numerous shades of green gradients and dense conifers. The Oslo airport is considerably smaller – a great relief.

‘Grab yourself a coffee,’ said my friend. ‘I am in a traffic jam.’

Traffic Jam? I wondered. Norway with its declining-aging population? I followed the directives of my stomach and wandered over to the sandwich counters.

68 Kroners! I sighed and paid up. But what a sandwich. There must have been nearly half a kilo of shelled prawn packed into the depths.

The sugar levels restored I was once again ready to appreciate beauty as I jumped into my friend’s car.

Miles and miles of green countryside spun by edged by the thickest stalks of pink and blue lupins. So beautiful … so beautiful I crooned as my friend airily dismissed them. ‘Weeds you know! We have to clear them up. You won’t find lupins in the city.’ cornflower blue sky and the shower of golden sunshine. Sounding ecstatic I know but what to do …it is true

At last in Tennisveien … Tennisview. This pine scented residential area overlooks tennis courts and a football ground and somewhere close by (just out of view for the moment) is the new Holmenkollen Ski Jump.

White Peony buds the size of a cricket ball. This is a cutting from the plant that was his grandmother’s prized possession.

Red peonies in bloom.

Tulips

My welcome drink and snack on the porch

Pims, salami and cheese

The thermometer attached to the kitchen window. It varied between 10 – 20 degrees centigrade while I was there … just perfect

My shadow at 9 p.m. across a buttercup strewn grassy patch.

My Hosts' lovely garden

Go to Budapest

2010-01-16T19:27:00.001+05:30

click to enlarge

Kali Puja & Diwali

2009-10-17T10:40:00.001+05:30

Mahalaya

2009-09-08T19:30:00.000+05:30

You Indian? Me Gypsy. Come let me take you to Vienna.

2009-09-01T13:02:00.010+05:30

The Turkish Airline flight flew low preparing to land. In the green landscape with buildings and roads popping up, I had my eyes trained on the Danube when suddenly a lush green island came into focus and grew bigger with every passing moment. ‘Margit Island,’ I said in hushed tones for I had just done a low flight over the same stretch sitting at home with Google Earth on my desktop. Cars sped over the Margit bridge (or Margit hid as I learnt later) towards Aquincum or so I imagined for that was one destination on my agenda. Tucked into the curve of the Danube was Pest, where we would stay, and hugging the outer convex margin was Buda – the castle district.
Turkish Airlines Economy Discounted Delhi to Istanbul:Departs Delhi 4.20 a.m.Arrives Istanbul 8.45 a.m.The Turkish Do&Co Mutfatka - the restaurant in the clouds served an average breakfast of omelette, rolls and coffee, but made up for it with a fabulous lunch comprising Turkish styled minced beef on a bed of bulgur rice / herbed prawns and rice (a grilled chicken something was also a choice.) andchocolate mousse for everybody Departs Istanbul 11.45 a.m.Arrives Budapest 12.45 pmThis time round they do not serve anything knowing full well that the passengers have gorged on free Turkish delights at the Old Bazaar in the airport.The return flight cost us a grand total of INR 29524/- per headDeparts Budapest 1.45 pmArrives Istanbul 4.40 pmDeparts Istanbul 6.45 pmArrives Delhi 3.10 amNow for the really grand total: airfare + 4 nights and complimentary breakfasts and spa facilities at Queen’s Court – INR 45000 per head

The plane had landed. We were in Hungary: not named after the Huns, I am told, but after the Ugrians of the Finno-Ugric group of whom the Magyars (pronounced as. Majyars) are a part. They are the Hungarians of today having displaced the ancient settlers of the half-a-million year old Carpathian Basin: Neanderthals who took on the mammoth, buffalo and the reindeer; Indo-Europeans who rode in on their horse drawn carriages bringing copper tools and weapons; Illyrians and Thracians and Scythians who brought in iron; Celts who worked with glass and crafted beautiful gold jewellery in the 3rd century BC; Romans who came at the start of the Christian Era and established Pannonia and Aquincum; Atilla who came in with his Huns and razed the Roman buildings but retained the fort re naming it after his brother Buda (it became Obuda or old Buda once the new city of Buda was constructed); Ostrogoths, Gepids and Longobards had their century here before being replaced by the a Turkish tribe, the Avars, in the 6th century AD; Charlemagne incorporated the region into his Frankish Empire by 796 AD.

The Magyars had reached the Carpathian Basin, as a part of various mercenary armies, around the mid 9th century AD. ‘Save us, O Lord, from the arrows of the Hungarians,’ became a common Christian prayer through Europe. It was during this time that the sacred turul, a mythical hawk like bird, impregnated Emese – a Hungarian girl –and to her a son was born. But it was her grandson, Arpad, who claimed his divine right to rule. The house of Arpad, however, had before them an important decision to make: who would they seek as their ally – the Holy Roman Empire to the west or Byzantium to the south-east? In the end Rome was chosen and Geza and his son Vajk became Christians. Vajk was crowned as Christian King Stephen I on Christmas day in 1000 AD and his crown came from Rome, sent by Pope Sylvester II.

The modern day Magyars are a hospitable race ever willing to wave their arms about and give, despite their rather perplexing tongue, succinct directions and instructions.

I had changed some money at the airport and was pleasantly surprised by the generous amounts poured into my hands. One Indian rupee buys four Hungarian Forints or hufs as little Urvi put it, as she exchanged her Euros. She is bringing up her mother (my classmate from medical college) well.

Queen’s Court had sent a taxi to pick us up. The taxi driver spoke no English but that did not matter.
‘Queen’s Court?’
‘Queen’s Court.’
And we were on our way. We had booked a European five-star hotel for the first time in our lives but of course we were aware that the opulence taken for granted in India would not apply here. We were soon trundling down narrow cobbled roads running between buildings, which appeared to have been left over from the time the last world war movie was shot. We came to a stop outside a red door that said Pertu Café. It was shut. All heads turned to the right. A brass plaque announced we had reached our destination.

Classmates who have become mothers tend to lounge and sigh: ‘Oh! The sofa is soft. I could do with a flat like this, this kitchenette, that bathroom and those beds.’
‘And this wallpaper Mama,’ Urvi ran her hands along the grainy ivory walls.’
‘… let’s go, go, go …’ was all I had to say. We had to make the most of the daylight hours.’
(Pic1) Looking out of our window (to the right) onto Dob Utca (call that Utza). The road going off to the left is Kurt Utca, which leads onto the really pretty street called Kiraly Utca. CLICK TO ENLARGE PHOTOGRAPHS

(Pic2) Out of the window again (looking left) onto Dob Utca.

Map in hand we stepped out. Now which way to the river? Which way is north? How do we hold the map?

‘Duna? Down Kurt Utca, turn left on Kiraly and go straight … From India? I love India.’

We followed the directions past the many distractions at Deak Ferenc Ter (ter = square).
(Pic 3) Cox Combs growing at Deak Ferenc Ter

(Pic 4) Concert at the Deak Ferenc Ter. No open area is left unutilised. There are performers at every square.
(Pic 5)Artists at Deak Ferenc Ter.

Past open air cafes eyeing the roast duck and Hungarian goulash. (Note the menu for we were to come back here for a dinner of roast duck …ummm and a kiss on the top of my fingers … all for the princely sum of INR 500/-) (Pic 6)

(Pic 7) To Vorosmarty Ter : Street side artists

(Pic 8) A pretty flautist playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons

(Pic 9) Past ornate Baroque styled buildings

(Pic 10) A musician with a set of glasses

(Pic 11) Offers of a rickshaw ride

And at last

(Pic 12) The Duna (I am, by now, as Hungarian as I can get). Buda Castle stands across. The Duna levels have risen with the water flooding the street. The Blue Danube may be the grey Duna now but it is still beautiful.

Day 2

The double decker Hop-on-hop-off bus is a neat way of getting familiar with the city. The tickets are available with the hotel concierge. We set off down Andrassy Utca, past the Opera House, looking for the Autobusz.

(Pic 14) The Opera House patronized by Wagner and family.

(Pic 15) We are off; head phones set to English
(Pic 16) First stop: Heroes square built in the Roman fashion. The statues of Lenin and Stalin have long been removed.

(Pic 17) Past the Railway Station – Keleti Palvaudvar. Notice the word dvar! Incomprehensible as it sounds, there is a method to the language I am sure.

Past
· Semmelweis Museum, where Ignac Semmelweis was born. He identified puerperal or childbed fever and was responsible for saving the lives of many new mothers.
· The Astoria Hotel where Hitler’s army, under Adolf Eichmann, was billeted in March 1944. The German army had come to tighten its grip over the Hungarian regent – Admiral Miklos Horthy, who labouring under the mistaken notion that Hungary had had enough, had been trying to come to secret understanding with the Allies! Horthy? Now there is another story. Since 1919, Hungary, one would say, had begun to go through a roughish patch: Bela Kun, a Transylvanian journalist, seized power in March 1919 and embarked on a reign of terror; the Romanians decided to do Hungary a favour, invaded the kingdom driving out Bela Kun and his minister of culture – Bela Lugosi (later famous as Count Dracula); having plundered and looted with gay abandon the Romanians took flight in November that year the moment Admiral Miklos Horthy, the hero of the battle of Rijeka, appeared in the city riding a white stallion. Horthy had then stood for the first general elections in the kingdom and had been declared regent. And President Franklin D Roosevelt had summed it up thus: Let me see if I understand you right. Hungary is a kingdom without a king, run by a regent who’s an admiral without a navy?

(Pic 18) The black and gold domes of the Dohan Synagogue at the end of Dob Utca – the second largest synagogue in the world.

(Pic 19) The Holocaust Memorial. On the leaves of the ‘metal tree of life’ are the family names of some of the 400,000/- victims. It includes the names of those who lost their lives in the infamous mass murder of doctors and patients at a hospital on Maros Utca.

(Pic 20) The memorial for Raoul Wallenberg – revered as one of the ‘most righteous gentiles’ around the world. The Swedish diplomat and businessman rescued as many as 35,000 Hungarian Jews in WWII. When the Soviet army entered Budapest, he was arrested for espionage and sent to Moscow. No one knows what became of him. It is assumed he was executed by the Soviets.

Over the bridge across the Duna to Buda

(Pic 21) Past the 0 kilometer point at the Clark Adam Ter
(Pic 22)The funicular leading to the castle

(Pic 23) The fisherman’s bastion – named because it was maintained by the fisherman’s guild

(Pic 24) Here stands the statue of Stephenus Rex or King Stephen I or Saint Stephen, the first Christian King of Hungary. His mummified right hand is preserved at the St Stephen’s Basilica and his Crown, a living symbol, in the Parliament House. Both relics had been ‘kidnapped’. It was Empress Maria Theresa who returned the ‘hand’ and the government of the United States the ‘crown’ which had made its way through Austria to Fort Knox to finally makes its way home in a major ceremony in January 1978.

(Pic 25) The Church of our Lady (being renovated) built by the Transylvanian general (later king) Janos (pr Yanosh) Hunyadi who stopped the Ottoman Turks at Belgrade in 1456. Hungary was declared the Christian bulwark of Europe and the pope ordered the church bells be rung through out Europe in celebration of Hunyadi’s victory. Hunyadi’s son Matyas became the greatest of the medieval rulers of Hungary. He married Princess Beatrice here and the church was called thereafter the Matyas Church.

In 1526, the year in which Babar conquered India, Ottoman Emperor Suleiman the Magnificent occupied Hungary. Ambitiously, he moved northwards to add Vienna to his kitty quite forgetting that winter was approaching. He had to abandon his plans and in his hurry left behind bags of coffee beans. Coffee was introduced to Europe! The Viennese bakers celebrated by baking bread in the shape of the Islamic crescent moon – the croissant! Austria had been saved but Hungary was not so lucky. It remained a part of the Ottoman Empire until the 17th century when the Austrians drove out the Turks and made Hungary a part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

(Pic 26) Take a ride but keep our castle district clean.

(Pic 27) Souvenir shops and embroidered boiled egg holders

(Pic 28) Handmade lace

(Pic 29) To Buda Castle. The underground wine cellars to the right have been turned into a wine museum and to the left lie the remains of the chapel of the Blessed Virgin and Saint Sigismund. Budapest had been bombed during the world war and much of it has been rebuilt trying to preserve the old style as far as possible.

(Pic 30) Buda Castle
(Pic 31) Lions guard the entrance

(Pic 32) For many years no one used the palace until Empress Maria Theresa requested that rooms be kept ready for her.

A long walk down the hill to Clark Adam Ter where hypoglycaemia drove us to wave frantically at our bus. The lady driver waved back equally frantically. ‘No need to kill yourselves,’ she seemed to be saying … But she did pick us up all the same.

(Pic 33) Our driver and conductor were the prettiest people we had laid eyes on that day.

(Pic 34)And to the Citadella.

This was built after an uprising against the ruling Austrian Hapsburgs. Every Hungarian was made to pay or work on it. The message was driven home: if there was ever a second uprising the guns from the citadel would blow up the city. As it happened, after the Hungarian independence, some of the walls of the citadel were symbolically blown up.

(Pic 35) A view of the Parliament House across the Danube taken from the Citadella.

We then made our way past Gellart Hill on top of which stand the statue of Bishop Gellart. He was brought by St Stephen to preach Christianity but the pagan Magyars bundled him into a barrel filled with nails and rolled him down the hill into the Duna! A waterfall beneath the statue symbolizes the fall. The area abounds with natural springs and ‘taking the waters’ is considered beneficial for health.

(Pic 36) St Stephen’s Basilica bathed in evening light.

A concert with church music and pieces from the Baroque period: the perfect way to end the day. Hungarians are serious about their music and frown upon high-tech camera noises. It was 10 p.m. by the time we left and the street lights had come on. People walked their dogs – variations between petite and tiny. Young and old sat about chatting and smoking. Sas Utca, the street in front, leads directly to Kiraly Utca. ‘Chalaa Chalaa ke maar daalegi’ said Amita as her daughter and I tugged at her arms giggling all the while. We had to make it back to the hotel before the Chess Restaurant closed. Back in the room Amita held up her socks for all to see. ‘A brand new pair!’ she claimed. She tried her best to glare at us but the luscious lamb chops, made from contented lambs … as an old friend would put it, were already nestling within. They – the socks, you guessed it right, were ridden with holes.

Day 3

Catch Tram number 4 (a magnificent yellow colour) from Erzsebet Ter, down the road from Queen’s Court, and head off to Margit hid. Then catch the train to Aquincum. All tickets are available with the concierge.
(Pic 37) Yellow tram.

(Pic 38) Check the graffiti in the subways

(Pic 39) The Roman ruins at Aquincum. Be sure not to go on a Monday for the museum is closed!

Catch the train back to Margit hid. The island has been developed into a large garden with fountains. Then get catch Tram number 2 which runs along the water front. So long as you do not get off you can keep sitting for as long as you want. We rode it up and down one-and-a- half times.

(Pic 40) Lady with the palm frond – the Hungarian Statue of Liberty taken from the tram.

(Pic 41) Got off the tram for lunch at Duna Corsa, a delightful open air café by the riverfront.

(Pic 45) Look at the amazing prices! But remember to check for service charges. If it is not included in the bill, hand over 10% of the total to the steward.

(Pic 46) Round off the lunch with a cake at Gerbeaud (pronounced as Gurbo) in Vorosmarty Ter.

Now catch tram number 2 to Vigado Ter, which is the last stop on the route and walk along the shopping areas to the Hungarian version of Palika Bazaar – West End City Centre. Catch tram number 4 to go back to Erzsebet Ter. Tram number 2 and 4 have the longest routes past some of the most scenic spots of the city.

As it happened we ended up riding tram number 4 all the way, in the opposite direction, over Margit hid to Moskova Ter and back again past West End City Centre to Erzsebet Ter. The day ended with a luxurious swim in the Hotel pool and would you believe we succeeded in making a little nook available for the roast duck and Hungarian goose liver curry in Queen Court’s Chess Restaurant?

Eating our way through Praha

2009-07-16T12:08:00.006+05:30

Dining Car with a view. Travelling from Praha to Budapest

Tiramisu in the dining car

Fried Camembert on a bed of rice and a spiced cherry chutney

Spaghetti bolognaise in the dining car ... travelling from Praha back to Budapest

Aberdeen Angus Minced Beef Pie, Toffee Roulade from Marks and Spencers. Apricots and peaches from a vendor at Wenceslas Square

Oops! remembered just before devouring the last bits. Prague Platter - Roast Duck with Bread and Potatoe dumplings

Though the land of the gypsy I travelled with their Indian cousins

2009-07-11T13:56:00.009+05:30

Hungarian Goulash with lamb and potatoe. Lamb no longer a favoured meat in Hungary though the chops in Queen's Court were decidedly luscious

Beef Steak Dunacorso style with goose liver, lecho and potatoes. Eaten by the banks of the Duna river. ahem - The Danube

Pork medallions Hungarian style at the Dunacorso cafe

just a corner of the breakfast table at the Queen's Court and Residence, Budapest... the corner with the smoked salmon ... the corner we patronised

The many faces of Kali

2009-03-10T09:49:00.006+05:30

Chamunda from Eastern India - 11th to 12th Century AD

Tara - 10th Century found at Sarnath

Kali - 9th Century found at Nolamba. Check out the teeth!

Kali Post Gupta period - 7th to 8th Century AD found in Madhya Pradesh

Kalkattawali

2009-03-06T09:45:00.001+05:30

There is but one Kalkattawali.

And everyone has the number.

From a Calcutta telephone directory?

2009-03-05T09:29:00.005+05:30

Open a telephone directory in Calcutta and you see page after page of Kalkattawalas or Calcuttawalas. Ever stop to think why the Kalkattawalis or Calcuttawalis are never listed?

Where are all the women?

Shakti in other lands

2009-02-17T11:26:00.002+05:30

· Harappa: Seal No.279: Human figure with a foot on a buffalo’s nose, grasping a horn with one hand and thrusting a spear into its back.

· Nubia: Temple of Nagar – Goddess slaughtering a demon, with her raised sword, a lion in the background, a snake symbol over her head and winged angels above.

· Japan: Juneiti Kannon or cundi and Juntei Butsubo – the mother of millions of Buddhas – Sapta koti buddha matri.

· Tibet: She is called Dolma Do'ma, As to when her cult exactly developed is unknown. The Chinese pilgrim Huan Tsang who visited the north Indian region between AD 633 and 645 reports describing, a Tolo image in a temple near Nalanda Buddhist University to which the general population was particularly devoted.

· China: The cosmic union, is represented by the square in circle MANDALA, shown in YAB-YUM union

· Europe: Ireland: Tara - Pre-Vedic Savior Goddess, known from India to IrelandFrance: Nude female holding a buffalo horn in her upraised hand dating from 28000 BC found at Dordogne.Durga/Kali (death) among whose followers were the thugs - as Sara-Kali she was worshipped by gypsies in France as the Black Virgin or Virgin Mary..

· Israel: Shekina the Jewish Cabalistic version of the Hindu Shakti, who when joined to Her male counterpart forms the perpetual cosmic union the star of David which is the Tantric mandala of Shiva (the upward pointing triangle) and Shakti (the downward pointing triangle). The concept of Shekina appears in the medieval ages associated with the celebration of the Shabat.

What the Purans say about Shakti

2009-02-15T11:19:00.003+05:30

Markandeya Purana – by Rishi Markandeya was documented in writing and granted its final form by 9th –10th Century AD. Its Devi Mahatmya or Chandi section comprises of 700 verses arranged within 13 chapters that have been devoted to the goddess – Mahishasura Mardini.

Skanda Puran:Skanda (Kartik) explains to Agastya Muni:

Durg, son of Ruru, obtained Brahma’s blessings and grew so powerful that he conquered the three worlds and dethroned Indra. The Brahmin’s were stopped from reciting the Vedas and their wives sang instead the praises of Durg. Rivers changed their courses and fire lost its heat. Mortally afraid, the earth put forward a generous and out of season harvest. Shiva appealed to Parvati. Many battles were fought but in the end the devi’s arrow pierced the demon’s breast. Parvati - the slayer of Durg assumed her new name – Durga.

Skand’s tale does not end here: Gauri descended from the Himalayas to meditate in the forests of Arunachal. She prayed in earnest for a brave husband. A spy brought the news to Prince Mahish. Mahish set about wooing the lady but accounts of his wealth; his exploits on the battle field – none of them were good enough. The truth dawned upon Mahish. To convince her he would have to engage her in combat.

Shakti is Mahishasura Mardini

2009-02-11T11:17:00.002+05:30

Trident, discusShakti emerged and the pantheon of male gods came forward to arm her with their personal weapons:
Siva: Trident
Vishnu: Discus
Brahma: Earthen water pot
Varuna: Conch & a noose
Agni: Spear
Marut: Bow and arrow
Indra: Thunder bolt and a bell
Yama: Rod of fate
Prajapati: Necklace
Sun: Rays on her skin
Destiny: Sword and shield
Ocean: Garments, pearls & garland
Visvakarma: Ornaments and axe
Himavan: Lion
Kuber: Wine cup
Sesha: Serpent Noose

Life goes on

2009-02-09T11:04:00.004+05:30

“Mantra Hinong, Kriya Hinong, Bhakti Hinong …….” Forgive me for I lack the words of prayer, for having failed you, for doubting you….yet I stand before you now your name upon my lips….

The chant throbs in the air. Generations have mouthed these words year after year, their hands cupped together holding leaves from the sacred bel and flowers brought for the daughter, the mother, the cosmic bride.

She stands resplendent in her wedding finery with her right foot upon her lion’s back, her left planted firmly upon the demon’s shoulder. Her three eyes gaze upon her devotees, and her ten arms bear celestial weapons gifted to her by the male pantheon - her slender well-developed form wields them with athletic grace. She is dressed in red silk and ornaments of gold and white sponge-wood (Aeschymene aspera). Her skin glows with a golden sheen and curly black locks tumble down her back. The severed head of a buffalo lies on the ground and Mahish who has emerged from within brandishes a sword and shield.

Prince Mahish of the Chaitra dynasty ruled beyond the Vindhya mountains – that separated the northern part of India from the south. The mountain had submitted to the southern prince who crossed it at will to raid the lands of the Aryans. He battered down the doors of Indra’s kingdom. No one could stand up to him. Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva put their energies together. Parvati imbibed their powers – she would henceforth be known as Shakti and Mahishasura Mardini.

But the months that follow the harvest coincide with cosmic sleep. Who could have the temerity to invoke (bodhan) her at this untimely (akaal) hour?

Ram, prince of Ayodhya, had led his armies against the demon king of Lanka – Ravan. The battle was to begin on the Saptami but Ravan’s skill upon the battlefield was legendary. He was also protected by Shiva’s boon. Ram took care to keep Mahishasura Mardini on his right side. The recitation of the verses from the Chandi had begun two days in advance.

The battle begins and Ravan is proving to be invincible. The reluctant devi shies away from granting an audience. Desperate times call for desperate measures. A hundred and eight blue lotus blossoms are made ready. The chanting rises to a frenzied pitch and the blossoms are offered one at a time. But after the 107th there are no more. The goddess has removed the last one. The prayers will come to nought. Ram reaches out to gouge an eye from its socket. Mahishasura Mardini tests her devotee no further and on the moment of Sandhiskhan – the crossover period between Ashtami and Navami – Ravan is struck by a fatal arrow. He closes his eyes on the tenth day. The pyre is lit and victory celebrated – the Vijaya Dashami.

Notice how big strong men rush to her every time insurmountable trouble rears its head? Those that forget her once their demands have been met, and shamelessly return clamouring for aid when the need arises. Durga looks on ….sometimes with a benevolent expression at her errant brood, at times in mild reproach. Her expression softens with every passing day of the bodhan. The bond grows stronger …driving the devotees to tears when after a final meal together of curds and flat rice she is allowed to depart for her matrimonial home.

They have always troubled her. She has always been patient and forgiving. She who had been acknowledged by the dwellers of the Indus valley was discarded when a new generation appeared. They drove her from her land and the only devotees that survived lived to the south of the Vindhyas. The newcomers were led by Indra – king of their gods, Varun – the very air that we breathe and Agni – the god of fire. They were amenable to assimilation and Shiva found his place among the trinity. But his cosmic bride was rejected.

A travelogue dating from those early days – the Rig Veda – made no mention of her. But its tenth chapter, which had been added many generations later, was devoted exclusively to her – they called it the Sri Sukta. As to when it was composed no one can be certain but other texts – Samahita - that predated it continued to ignore her. Sri Sukta extolled Sri’s virtues and was followed by the writing of the Khilaratri Sukta that was devoted to Maha Lakshmi, Maha Saraswati and Maha Kali. Her name was no longer taboo.

The new Vedic way developing in the northern lands continued to sideline her until the age of the Yajur Ved. Its Shatpat Brahmin section has this to say:

The creator’s work is far from perfect. His creations will not multiply. Finally Shiva appears before him in his ‘ardhanareshwar’ form. He is conjoined with her, the body split down the center. Neither is complete without the other. Prajapati Brahma, the creator understands. He populates the earth with living creatures of every kind. Exhausted, he rests. Sri, in her divine beauty, issues from within him. The gods cannot withhold their envy. Kill her, they cry. Prajapati intervenes. He lets her live."

The Kena Upanishad, the addendum to the Sam Ved, said to have been composed in the 7th Century BC, at last restores her to her rightful position.

"The Brahman (the one and only supreme being) makes an appearance and is instantly challenged. The Brahman offers some straw. Agni is unable to burn it, Vayu, unable to blow it away. The king of the gods arrives. Indra is determined to learn the true nature of the power. He finds instead the sacred feminine, Uma or Himavati (Shakti). Humbled, Indra submits. Uma reveals to him the sacred knowledge."

At last, the name Uma appears – one that is familiar to every Bengali.

Uma or Sati, the daughter of Daksha Raj, the king of the Himalayas, and Menaka chooses to marry Shiva much against her parents’ wishes. When the tiger skin clad son-in-law smeared in ashes arrives, the mother of the bride swoons. The bridegroom then takes on his celestial appearance and takes away his bride. Still very embarrassed Dakhsha Raj refuses to acknowledge him.
Uma gets to hear of a great yagna that is being organized by her father. Though her husband has received no invitation, Uma is determined to attend it. Shiva advises against it but his young bride longs for her parents. Kuber arrives and places his store of gold and jewels at her disposal. Uma spurns his offer and uses instead the wild flowers of the forest to adorn herself. Menaka pines for her daughter for no celebration can be complete without her. She is overjoyed to see her but Daksha Raj is incensed. Unable to stand the sight of his daughter and her sorry plight he rants and raves at her choice of husband publicly humiliating her. Uma is inconsolable and commits suicide.
A distraught Shiva cannot tear himself away from her body. The destroyer’s duties are neglected. The earth can no longer bear its burdens. Vishnu uses his discus to destroy Uma’s body. The pieces drop to the earth.

The aniconic forms of the mother goddess retain their great energy and the Shakti Peeths are created. With no physical body to mourn Shiva sinks into a deep trance.

Himavan, the mountain king has two daughters – the gay and carefree Ganga and the docile Parvati. Ganga is irresistible and is invited to live in heaven. Parvati, on the other hand prays seriously for a husband. She places flowers daily before the meditating Shiva. A watching Kaam Dev lets fly an arrow. Shiva and Parvati’s union is guaranteed but the unfortunate Kaam Dev is reduced to ashes by the Shiva’s rage. The widow Rati approaches Parvati who intercedes on her behalf. Kaam Dev wins his life back.

A number of names have been used down the ages but they all refer to the one and only mother goddess. As Vedic practice merged with that of ancient India, assimilation rather than rejection proved to be the norm. All female goddesses drawn from every nook and cranny were incorporated into one. They would now be referred to as her manifold forms. She continued to be worshipped both in the manner of the ancient Indians and in the new way of the Vedic people.

By the 2nd Century AD, the Bhakti movement was in full swing. The common man clamoured for a simpler system by which the deities, who had been entrusted with the responsibility of teaching us to recognize the Brahman within ourselves, would become more accessible. Every community chose a deity each - one they could love and cherish like a family member. Like Krishna who fulfilled multiple roles as an infant, son, lover and father, Durga was adopted by Bengalis both as a daughter and a mother.

With the documentation of Chandi section of the Markandya Puran the worship of the goddess was standardised. It was not purely the Vedic way for it incorporated many ancient rituals. There would be no further alterations to her image and her mantras would now be chanted unchanged by the generations to come.

Winter delicacies in Bengal

2009-01-01T21:22:00.003+05:30

Janani tomar shubho ahobaan diyache nikhil bhubone Notun dhanne hobe nabanno tomar bhobone bhobone

Mother (Bengal) your propitious call has echoed through to the far reaches of the universe.

New grain cooked in your name will grace every home that holds you dear.

Cultivated rice, including all its numerous varieties, originates from a wild plant called Newaree that grows along the lakes in Bengal. It is also native to Australia and has been documented in China since 2800BC.

The end of winter coincides with the harvesting of rice and a time of celebration in Bengal. The ‘nabanno’ is cooked in every hearth and the wife judged by her ability to decorate her home with ‘alpona’ – traditional deisgns painted onto the walls and floor with rice flour paste – and her skill at making ‘pithe’.

This spirit of competition is immortalized in Thakurma’s Jhuli.

Queen Kanchan Mala left to bathe one day. She emerged from the river to find that her maid - Kakon Mala - had donned her ornaments and stolen her identity. Bemoaning her fate Kanchan Mala accepted her role as maid.

Soon it was the festival of ‘pithe kuruli’ Women were expected to display their skills in pithe making and alpona. Whereas the false queen made blobs of alpona, Kanchan Mala decorated her room with artistic lotus blossoms, pots of gold and the feet of the goddess. Then the false queen cooked Ashke pithe, Chaske pithe and Ghashke pithe. Kanchan Mala busied herself with making Chandrapuli, Mohon Bansi, Kheer Muroli and Chandan Pata pithe. Her good taste proved her identity beyond doubt and Kanchan Mala was restored to her legitimate position.

All ‘pithes’ improve in flavour as they cool and mature over a day. They are often served with freshly extracted liquid jaggery made from the rising sap of the date palm – a winter product of Bengal.

Rosh Bora: Fried balls of urad dal paste flavoured with fennel and soaked in sugar syrup.

Gokul Pithe: (East Bengal) Crunchy crisp fried balls of grated coconut, khir (evaporated milk), raisins & flour. It is served coated in thick sugar syrup.

Patishapta (Pati = flat: Shapta = roll): (East Bengal) Thin rice pancakes stuffed with a filling of grated coconut and khir (evaporated milk) sweetened with either new jaggery or sugar & cardamom.

Chandrapuli: Grated coconut kneaded with khir (evaporated milk) cooked with powdered sugar and shaped into wafer thin crescents using the traditional Chandrapuli mould.

Pulir Payesh or Dudh Puli: Rice or semolina dumplings stuffed with a sweetened stuffing of khir & grated coconut served soaked in sweetened khir (evaporated milk) flavoured with cardamom.

Moonger Puli or Bhaja Puli; (West Bengal) Crisp fried balls of dry roasted & powdered mung dal stuffed with khir (evaporated milk) flavoured with cardamom. It is served coated with thick sugar syrup.

Shoru Chakli: Very fine rice pancakes to be eaten with freshly extracted liquid date palm jaggery.

Aloor Pithe: Fried elongated rolls of mashed sweet potatoe (shakkar kandy = sugar candy) stuffed with a filling of grated coconut, khir (evaporated milk), raisins, sweetened with either jaggery or sugar & cardamom. It is served soaked in syrup.

Poshano Patishapta: These dainty little patishaptas are served with a scoop of sweetened khir (evaporated milk).

Narkel Chitai Pithe: Steamed rice idlis stuffed with a filling of sweetened grated coconut. It is to be eaten with liquid date palm jaggery.

Khoi Puli: (East Bengal) Fried balls of flat rice kneaded with grated coconut sweetened with either jaggery or sugar. It is served soaked in syrup.

Kakra Pithe: A filling of grated coconut, khir (evaporated milk) and sugar is stuffed into rolled out balls of dough, shaped into crescents and deep fried till crisp. It is then soaked in syrup.

Malpua: A batter of flour and khir (evaporated milk) flavoured with raisins and fennel is fried into thick small pancakes. It is then soaked in syrup and served with sweetened khir (evaporated milk). It is offered to Sureshwar (Shiv – the destroyer who is credited as the lord of music).

Ashke Pithe and Ghaske Pithe: Balls of powdered rice kneaded with jaggery and milk are then deep fried and served piping hot.

Path Pithe: This is an interesting variation. Ripe mashed bananas are kneaded with jaggery and rice powder. A layer is spread over the inside of a banana leaf coated with oil. Folded into little parcels they are baked in a charcoal fire. The pithas, redolent of the fragrant banana leaf, are served with sweetened khir (evaporated milk).

Cholar Puli: (East Bengal) Crisp fried balls of powdered chana dal stuffed with coconut paste flavoured with cardamom. It is served coated with thick sugar syrup.

Associated Savouries: Kochuri Tarkari

Sweets: Sweets of the season use freshly extracted date palm jaggery - Sandesh, Payesh with rice and Jai Nagarer Moa.

Mazaa aa gaya

2008-12-11T10:26:00.005+05:30

Happy Id …uh! Id Mubarak, I corrected myself.

Aapko bhi per aaj bhi kya Id hai…Mangalwar? Bakhra Id on a Tuesday? Kaise khilayen aapko…Bakhra kaun katega aaj?

Vegetarianism on Tuesday …a very north Indian Hindu concept ...one that has seeped into the psyche of those too long associated with the north. Can’t remember if men or children in Bengal are ever forced into vegetarianism unless they are in mourning.

Happy Id! I repeated the words to myself…listen to yourself speak; it stems out not restricting your thinking to one language.

I had been chastised only a couple of day before for chatting happily with Sunil Gangopadhyay.

‘My brother’s daughter!’ apologized my aunt to the celebrity writer of Bengal, ‘listen to her speckled Bangla.’

‘Natural progression,’ he smiled. 'I have heard it said in Raj shahi in Bangladesh ...ki mojar khabaar!...and have often wondered how food could be percieved as funny. It was all explained the moment I was told about the ancient trade route that entered from Bihar bypassing what is modern West Bengal. It all made sense. The East Bengalis were infact using the northerner's phrase to appreciate a good meal: Mazaa aa gaya.'

Ayurveda and Southern Hospitality

2008-12-04T21:08:00.013+05:30

‘From where madam?’

Madam was past caring. The warm trickle of oil was making its way very slowly down the nape of her neck.

With firm brisk strokes the tide was stemmed as practised fingers worked the magic of the herbs into the skin, kneading here, teasing there …

‘Coming from?’

She was no more than 4 feet something dressed in the cream coloured sari of Kerala with its glittering gold border and a dot of sandalwood paste on her forehead. A diploma holder in Ayurvedic massage, she, along with a host of other young women, caught a boat daily to the Ayurveda centre.

Large flat earthen vessels of water with pretty flowers, freshly plucked, awaited them in their rooms. A cool job! The thought had come to my mind when I first saw the worker come to shake the flowering trees at the crack of dawn. Only the ones that refused to be knocked loose were chosen.

Fragrant steam arose as the poultice of herbs was applied on the sore spots along the neck. Sleep welled up in great delicious waves.

‘Delhi.’ The word was articulated with great difficulty.

‘Following doctor’s treatment madam?’

I shook my head unwilling to make more of an effort. I had paid a cursory visit to the Ayurveda restaurant. The young Malayali steward had shown me around and even showed me one of the diet charts before turning to a guest and switching to the most incomprehensible Germanische-sprache. Glenda; Female: 70 years; Sweden; permitted only lime juice, no tea; coffee; salt; onion; garlic….the list was endless. Needless to say the restaurant was a pure-veg one. Glenda appeared deprived of most of the Indian condiments too…Dear Dear Glenda did you have a clue before you signed up for this? I for one was on holiday: the sumptuous continental, north and south Indian buffet spreads, the seafood platters, the chicken liver curries, appams and stews supervised by the smiling conspiratorial stewards who aided the squirreling of muffins and cream doughnuts just in-case one managed to feel peckish despite the prompt room-service.

‘Done madam.’ The final light slapping invigorated the muscles. ‘No sleep now,’ was the final admonition as I headed out of the shower and made my way to the pool.

Thank you Glenda. Thank you for undertaking this journey to keep the great tradition of Ayurveda alive.

Incredible India

2008-11-24T14:15:00.001+05:30

‘We were here the year the Tsunami hit. We had just reached Poovar when we got the news that the little fishing village we had been staying at on the Chennai coast had been wiped out. People we had spent the last few days with…they were just no more! They were poor you know…incredibly poor, living in shanties. And here we were in all this luxury…Here? Oh more than 3 months now. Coming in from the north this time. Caught a bus, a regular one mind you, from the hills to Delhi.’

‘The bus conductor had taken quite a shine to me,’ she grinned. ‘He insisted we sit right behind him!’

‘Probably so that he could look after you.’ I hazarded.

‘You think?’ The husband winked naughtily at me. Days of lying in the Poovar sun had bequeathed a thick spread of freckles that threatened to merge together into a uniform brown. ‘I was left behind at all the rest stops to guard the cameras while she was escorted to the toilets.’

‘I hardly need to describe them.’ She shuddered. ‘But you would know all about it.’

This British couple, in their late sixties, wintered every year in India experiencing the many faces of ‘real India.’ The chai for her was on the house but when the driver and the conductor opened their tiffin boxes and insisted she eat with them, she had declined firmly. Her husband who watched through the barred windows, keeping the poultry and livestock company, smiled at the gaggle of young village youths who had left everything to stand and gaze.

‘How much do you earn in England? … What could I say? If I told them … it would appear obscene. How could I explain buying power? I made some attempts but then the next question had me stumped… Have you had tea with the queen?’

The memory made him burst out laughing. ‘That village on the outskirts of Corbett was more British than Britain!’

‘But sharing food is very oriental. I for all my metro lifestyle find it very awkward to chomp away by myself with others present.’

‘And that is how it should be. Shouldn’t it? Sharing food … how we have lost the warmth!’ She sighed.

‘Have you been to London?’

I nodded smiling inwardly …people, no matter from which part of the world, were no different.

‘Loved it.’ I said.

‘Really!’ was the incredulous response. ‘What could you have loved about it?’ She splashed her legs and gazed up. ‘I for one could do with more sun.’

‘Looking for a house.’ Her husband chipped in. ‘Would like to settle in India…’ he shot me a glance. ‘But not in Delhi.’

The room with the best view

2008-11-23T08:42:00.011+05:30

It wasn't until the morning of 10th Nov that we had realised how we had been pampered. My repeated calls to the resort reiterated the fact that a wheel chair would be required and we needed to be as close to the dining area as possible.

Room No. 201: The first glimpse as we raised the blinds.

The room was fabulously positioned.

Steps led past our room to the swimming pool and dining area.

The foreign guests lounged on deck deckchairs reading, tanning themselves periodically entering the pool for a couple of lengths before settling for a beer at the sunken bar.

Non of the other rooms could boast of a view like ours.

Tiffins - the dining area overlooked the pool.

Lastly the floating cottages by the jetty.
The sun set upon Poovar and the kite whistled overhead.

A splash of an oar and a father and his boys make their way home for dinner.

The Swedish group on their 2 month Ayurveda adventure end their day with yoga. The chant of 'Satya satya satya' and fragrance of sandalwood fill the beach front.

Back from Paradise

2008-11-22T18:26:00.007+05:30

‘I zink zis is paradise?’

It was a statement not a question but with a dare in it. Could I disagree? Sapena rested her bronzed arms on the edge of the pool. The water lapped luxuriously about her body as she contemplated the blue of the sky framed by the fresh green of the coconut and the darker fronds of the palm. A white-breasted fishing eagle wheeled high above. It was time for the fishermen on the sandbar to draw in the catch.

Paradise.

Poovar was truly a paradise nestling in God’s own land – Kerala. All thoughts of dry dusty Delhi with its garbage heaped along the roads had been driven away. I sank further into the silky water. A four- hour flight had brought us to the southern most part of India and the first realisation as we emerged from the aircraft was that it had been pouring until moments ago. A resort taxi had whisked us through the dark sleepy lanes of Trivandrum through little towns fast asleep. Old crooked men waited hunched over sticks, crones with dogs by their side sat just beyond the reach of the headlight beam. Eerie and mysterious they waited until we flashed past turning into benign walls or posts in the wink of an eye. The heart thudded and then quietened as a light appeared. In a little gazebo, dressed in white and pale blue, sat the Madonna smiling down at her infant. The fresh fragrance of the rain washed earth swirled deliciously around. An hour … it had seemed much longer … and we were climbing down a thickly forested path towards a light. There were steps but the guard ran down and firmly grasped my mother by the arm. We picked our way carefully down to the Neyyer River where a motorboat waited. The engine chugged to life and we were on our way through the pitch dark waters which turned a jade green along the sides of the boat. The dark curvy silhouettes of the coconut palms fringed the banks of backwater some tilted at almost impossible angles stretched flat along the surface of the water. A pale moon, round but not quite full, turned the tops silvery. A faint plop sounded. The gleam of a fish, or was it a frog, skipping along caught the eye. I stopped myself from reaching into the water. Did I hear the slap of a reptilian tail? Amitav Ghosh! Thank you very much.

The waterway widened. We had been travelling for over half-an-hour. The sea appeared to open up in front of us. There was an island in the distance. Nonchalantly I had turned to the boatman. ‘That is Poovar?’

‘No madam. To your left.’
Miraculously lights had appeared to the left. The shapes of the floating cottages could now be quite distinctly made out and bright lights shone in what appeared to be a jetty. A reception committee was waiting. In the arc of the light, straddled on a vessel of two coconut palm trunks held together with twine was a fisherman, his lungi bunched about his knees, examining his net. It was alive with silver.

The Way We View The World

2008-11-04T11:18:00.003+05:30

Sandhi Puja - Click on Poster to enlarge

2008-10-07T12:16:00.002+05:30

Shashti

2008-10-05T15:01:00.005+05:30

The sixth day after the new moon. Today the invocation will begin... a precedent set byLord Ram. He was the first mortal to have invoked the Devi waking her from the atumnal sleep - akaal bodhon...untimely awakening.

Today all mothers will fast and pray to Shasti - the maternal aspect of the Devi.

Today is a day of fasting... light and crisp luchi with cauliflower and potatoe dalna, chane ki dal with fried bits of coconut and raisins.

Eat light today. Eat simple. Finish with a rice paish ... fragrant gobindobhog grains in lightly sweetened milk that has been thickened to creamy texture over a slow fire.
Raisins, cardamom powder and bay leaves add to the aroma.

CLICK PHOTOS TO ENLARGE

Mantras and Food

2008-10-05T10:53:00.020+05:30

Panchami 4th October 08: the fifth day after the newmoon - the best day to eat and make merry. The images have arrived but remain behind a veil.

Anandomela: men and women; old and young; slave over hot stoves and display their culinary skills.

Paromita's mangshor cutlet - crisp on the outside and a juicy meaty tenderness within.

Perfection: Dilip Kaku's Sandesh served on banana leaf platters.

Mukherjee Dida's Radhaballabi stack ... paper thin and transparent delicately flavoured with asafoetida and stuffed with dal

Aloo dum - potatoes with cumin and coriander seeds simmered on a slow fire.

And her famous Gokul Pithe ... she smiles but will not give out the recipe.

Chingri and rice

Gopa's fish cutlets: a spicy carp filling and an outer coat of golden mashed potatoes.

Nandini di in action ... sandesh, maacher chop, mangshor cutlet... the porotha and kosha mangsho remains just out of the camera range.

Proma's spicy baby potatoes with squeeze of lemon, a sprinkling of coriander and crisp sev ...

Ashtami

2008-10-02T20:56:00.000+05:30

Sri Sri Durga Sharanam

Shudhi:
Nomo Vishnu, Nomo Vishnu, Nomo Vishnu
Nomo Apobitro, Pobitroba, Shorbo Bosthang Gotho-ho Piba
Jah Shoret Pundori Kakhang Shobha-jhyo-bhontarang Suchih.
Nomo Madhobo Madhobo Baachi, Madhobo Madhobo Hridi
Smaranti Shad hobo Shorbey Shorbo-karjeshu Madhobom
Nomo Shonkho Chokro Dhorong Vishnung Dvi Bhujang Pito-bashonam Prarombhe Kormonang Biproh Pundorikong Smare Dharim.

Anjali 1.
Nomo, Ayurdehi Joshodehi Bhagyong Bhagwati Dehimey
Putrandehi Dhonongdehi Shorbaan Kamang-scho Dehimey
Nomo Bhogoboti Bhoyo-chheydey Bhobotarini Kamodey
Shankari Kaushiki Tvanghee Kattayani Nomostutey
Nomo Prochondey Putro-dey Dit-tvang Shupritey Shuro-na-i-key
Kulo-dwo-kore Devi Joyong Dehi Nomostutey
Esho Shochondono Gondho Pushpanjoli
Shayu-dho-bahono Poribaar Shohito, Sri Sri Bhogoboti Durga-oi Nomo

Anjali2.
Nomo Durgot-tarini Durgey Tvang Shorba Shubho Nibarini Dhoromartho Mok-khodey Devi Nityang-mey Boroda Bhobo
Nomo Durgey Durgey Moha-bhagey Traahimang Shonkoro-priyey Mohisho-sring Modon Mot-tey Pronoto-hoshmi Proshidomey
Nomo Shorbaa Baadha Prosho-monong Troi-Iokyo-sha Khilesh-shori
Ebom Ebo Tvo-ya Ka~o Mosh-mod Boiri Binashanong
Esho Shochondono Billo-patran-nito Pushpanjoli
Shayu-dho-bahono Poribaar Shohito, Sri Sri Bhogoboti Durga-oi Nomo

Anjali3.
Nomo, Horo Paapong, Horo Kley-shong, Horo Shokong, Horae Shubhom Horo Rogo, Horo Kshobhong, Horo Maari, Horo Priyey
Nomo Kali Kali MohaKaIi Kalikey Paapohaarini
Dhoromartho Mok-khodey Devi Narayani Nomostutey
Nomo Ayur-do-da-tumey Kali Putrandehi Shoda Shibey
Dhonong Dehi Moha-mayey Noroshinghi Josho-momo
Nomo Mohish-agni Mohamayey Chamundo MundomaIini
Ayur arogyo Bijo-yong Dehi Devi Nomostutey
Esho Shochondono Gondho Pushpanjoli
Shayu-dho-bahono Poribaar Shohito, Sri Sri Bhogoboti Durga-oi Nomo

Prarthonaa:

Nomo, Montro Hinong, Kriya Hinong, Bhokti Hinong, Shureshori
Joth Puji-thong Moyadevi Poripunong Toda-stume
Nomo Grohitung Sharodi-pujang Mortho Mondolo Shong-sthitham Chandike Tvang Nomaa-myodo Shoyo-mor-ghyong Pro-gri-hyo-taam Nomo Ka-ye-no Monosha Baacha Totto Nan-nyo Gotir-no-momo
Onto-scha-reno Bhutanang Droshti Tvang Poromeshori

Pronaam:
Shorbo-mongolo Mongoley Shibey Shorobartho Shaadhikey Shoron-ney Trombukey Gauri Narayani Nomostutey
Srishthi Stithi Binasha-nang Shakti-bhutey Shonatoni
Gunasroy Gunomoyey Narayani Nomostutey
Shorona-gotho Deenarto Poritraney Porayoney
Shorbo Shyarthey Horey Devi Narayani Nomostutey

Saptami

2008-10-01T02:41:00.000+05:30

Sri Sri Durga Sharanam

Shudhi:
Nomo Vishnu, Nomo Vishnu, Nomo Vishnu
Nomo Apobitro, Pobitroba, Shorbo Bosthang Gotho-ho Piba
Jah Shoret Pundori Kakhang Shobha-jhyo-bhontarang Suchih.

Nomo Madhobo Madhobo Baachi, Madhobo Madhobo Hridi
Smaranti Shadhobo Shorbey Shorbo-karjeshu Madhobom
Nomo Shonkho Chokro Dhorong Vishnung Dvi Bhujang Pito-bashonam
Prarombhe Kormonang Biproh Pundorikong Smare Dharim.

Anjali 1:
Nomo Ayurdehi Joshodehi Bhagyong Bhagwati Dehimey Putrandehi Dhonongdehi Shorbaan Kamang-scho Dehimey
Nomo Bhogoboti Bhoyo-chheydey Bhobotarini Kamodey Shankari Kaushiki Tvanghee Kattayani Nomostutey

Esho Shochondono Gondho Pushpanjoli Shayu-dho-bahano Paribaar Shohito
Sri Sri Bhogoboti Durga-oi Nomo ....

Anjali 2.:
Nomo Durgot-tarini Durgey Tvang Shorba Shubho Nibarini Dhoromartho Mok-khodey Devi Nity-ang-mey Boroda Bhobo
Nomo Durgey Durgey Moha-bhagey Traahimang Shonkoro-priyey Mohisho-sring Modon Mot-tey Pronoto-hoshmi Proshidomey

Esho Shochondono Billo-patran-nito Pushpanjoli Shayu-dho-bahono Poribaar Shohito
Sri Sri Bhogoboti Durga-oi Nomo

Anjali 3.
Nomo Horo Paapong, Horo Kley-shong, Horo Shokong, Horaa Shubhom
Horo Rogo, Horo Kshobhong, Horo Maari, Horo Priyey
Nomo Kali Kali MohaKali Kalikey Paapohaarini
Dhoromartho Mok-khodey Devi Narayani Nomostutey
Nomo Ayur-do-da-tumey Kali Putrandehi Shoda Shibey
Dhonong Dehi Moha-mayey Noroshinghi Josho-momo
Prarthonaa:
Esho Shochondono Gondho Pushpanjoli
Shayu-dho-bahono Poribaar Shohito
Sri Sri Bhogoboti Durga-oi Nomo
Nomo, Montro Hinong, Kriya Hinong, Bhokti Hinong, Shureshori
Joth Puji-thong Moyadevi Poripurno Todo-stume
Nomo Grohitung Sharodi-pujang Mortho Mondolo Shong-sthitham
Chandike Tvang Nomaa-myodo Shoyo-mor-ghyong Pro-gri-hyo-taam
Nomo Ka-ye-no Monosha Baacha Totto Nan-nyo Gotir-no-momo
Onto-scha-reno Bhutanang Droshti Tvang Poromeshori
Shorbo-mongolo Mongoley Shibey Shorobartho Shaadhikey Shoron-ney Trombukey Gauri Narayani Nomostutey
Srishthi Stithi Binasha-nang Shakti-bhutey Shonatoni
Gunasroy Gunomoyey Narayani Nomostutey

Narayani Nomostutey

How Green is my Valley

2008-09-22T15:51:00.003+05:30

Whats happening this September?

2008-09-12T12:13:00.012+05:30

Durga is getting ready.

A mother Shalik (Common Mynah) arrives with a fat larva for tea.

Her babies are tucked in for the night.

The branches of the shewli are fast filling up with buds.

The Kadam stands tall remembering Radha who danced with her beloved Krishna beneath its generous shade.

The shewli blossoms lie scattered beneath the tree waiting to be picked up by the early morning walkers. The orange stalks will be plucked and dried and saved until Saraswati Puja that will come next spring. Then the young girls will soak in them in hot water until the colour seeps out. White fabric will be dyed and the light yellow (Basanti colour) saris will be worn to felicitate the goddess of education.

The Kadam tree has burst into blossom - each one a bright orange and round...much like a tangerine.

The Bel - Bengal Quince - has borne fruit. Its leaves (billo patranjali) will be used for the puja.

The Royal Rajputs goes to the Book Fair

2008-09-06T10:52:00.005+05:30

Sitting beside Chetan Bhagat?

In the section for women authors

The Royal Rajputs has made it to these sites:

http://books.rediff.com/bookshop/bkproductdisplay.jsp?THE-ROYAL-RAJPUTS&prrfnbr=81888810&multiple=&frompg=_

http://www.flipkart.com/search-books/royal+rajput

http://indiatoday.digitaltoday.in/index.php?option=com_content&issueid=70&task=view&id=14592&sectionid=25&Itemid=1

http://www.bookcafe.in/itemdesc.asp?ic=9788129111272&eq=&Tp=

Days that remind you that you are Bengali.

2008-09-03T12:39:00.000+05:30

Have you noticed how it is the newly weds that display the most enthusiasm for culture and tradition … stuff that until a few months ago were relegated to the care of the fuddy-duddy. But magically the moans and the groans disappear as the new home is set up.

The telephone shrieks breaking the harmony and the complaining voice of the daughter calling from London comes with its own share of pleasure.

‘I have set up the idol and the sweets for the prasad. What do I do next?’

The voice has a note of hysteria.

‘Say whatever you want to. The goddess will understand.’

But the mother’s calm sensible words bring little relief.

‘It doesn’t sound like your Laxmi puja.’ The daughter’s sharp retort holds her responsible. ‘You read the mantra and I will put the speaker phone on.’

The mother puts up a feeble protest but is secretly thrilled. She runs to bring her little notebook. Her voice reaches out from Delhi echoing through the newly furnished London apartment. The father continues with his newspaper but its folds cannot hide the beam that radiates across his recently emptied home.

It is the first full moon night since Durga Puja got over. The mother remembers the old days when they served refreshments on the terrace while the men sat up playing cards through the night. Kojagori Laxmi Puja! The goddess would fly through the dark skies calling out, ‘Who is awake? Ko jagori?’ Blessings and good fortune would be showered upon the heads she could spot.

The mother tries to complete the story….but it brings on a wail of anguish.

‘No more of your stories mom…it’s an early day tomorrow. In any case our Punjabi friends won’t be playing until Diwali. By the way….quick tell me what to eat for Choddo shak.’

A list is rattled of with all the enthusiasm of a steroid induced sprinter. But after the eleventh the mother pauses to catch her breath.

‘You still have time till before Kali Pujo. You can always cheat a bit and add basil (tulsi) and lemon leaves,’ she says making a mental note to put her husband’s older sister to the test the moment this call was over.

And so the question was floated around. Together the homemakers recalled days when they pleaded, cajoled and even stole, from helpless uncomprehending Punjabi vegetable vendors, a strand of green that would make up the magic number.

The 14 greens….what would you get in Delhi?

Palak
Methi
Sarso
Bathua (not easy for it may not be available during Kali Puja)
Chaulayee (this is the Notey shak. Can’t add Notay again)
Lal shak (Lal Notey)
Kolmi shak
Kumro shak – Pumpkin greens (you would have to grow this yourself)
Lau shak – Marrow greens (ditto)
Moolo shak – Radish greens
Pui shak – not allowed I am told. It is a non-veg shak if you please! Kochu (Arbi – colocasia) shak is not eaten …Its use is restricted to the role of an umbrella while the holder goes skinny-dipping in the village pond .
…
…
…

Care to have a go?

Oh! And last but not the least. Wash your 14 shaks and sprinkle the water on the family members…another 14 years of life is guaranteed.

The Royal Rajputs on the Rupa & Co website

2008-08-27T09:53:00.003+05:30

http://www.rupapublications.co.in/client/home.aspx

Puja Terms

2008-08-24T15:35:00.000+05:30

Traditional Indian blessings and congratulations

2008-08-20T09:49:00.016+05:30

The birth of Indian Traditions.

The human world needed to be populated but Brahma’s elder son, Narad, refused to give up his bachelor status. Disappointed He turned to His younger, Manu.

Humans flourished and Manu laid down the set of laws that was to govern their every move.

Brahma turned to the monkey world….perhaps this event was the one that took place first for the so called monkey world is really that of the ancient Indian’s.

Riksharaja was born and Brahma spent many hours delighting in the company of his son. The monkey pranced about discovering the lovely world when for the first time he came upon a clear sparkling pool. But there in the depth of the waters, staring him in the eye, was another monkey. Riksharaja plunged in and when he surfaced he had taken on the form of a female monkey. Surya (the sun god) and Indra (the king of the gods) fell in love instantly and to Riksharaja was born Vali, the son of Indra and Sugreev, son of Surya. Riksharaja regained his original form and returned to his father’s abode.

Vali, the elder; the future king, was taken away amidst great rejoicing while Sugreev lived by himself and grew lonesome. Riksharaja was upset and he called for Vayu, the lord of the winds.

‘Father a companion for my son, one who will be his source of strength.’

Vayu chose Anjana and a child - the first of the Langurs - or genus Semnopithecus (click on coloured link) - was born.

The little one was full of mischief as all children are. He rose early one day to discover an orange red fruit hanging just above the horizon.

‘A mango!’

The infant leapt up into the sky. But it was a strange fruit and the little one’s face was scorched. Would he give up? No, he sprang up once again.

Rahu, the demon who had long lost his torso, was lurking close-by for a chance to swallow the sun. The solar eclipse was due. He rushed to Indra complaining.

‘There is another demon attempting to eat the sun.’

Indra kept a sharp lookout and sure enough spotted a tiny form flying furiously at the sun. He hurled his thunderbolt.

The little monkey fell back onto the earth hurt and confused. His chin … his poor little chin had been cleft in two. Sweeping down towards him was his father who gathered him into his arms and retired to a cave. Vayu was enraged. He would blow no longer about the world with his life-giving winds. He would not come out of the cave…why was his little son being persecuted?

As the world choked and gasped for breath the gods came rushing to apologise.

They looked at the little one and were overcome. One so young and beautiful and yet such a font of power and strength. As they caressed the beautiful little face they blessed every inch of it. Finally placing their fingertips upon the injured chin, which the ancients called Hanu in Sanskrit, they proclaimed, ‘herein lies all your beauty. May you be known hereafter as Hanumantha or Hanuman.’

Congratulating Olympic champ Abhinav Bindra (click for Abhinav's blog) in the traditional manner for winning a gold medal.

More on the book - click to enlarge

2008-08-18T13:09:00.002+05:30

Some glimpses of the book

2008-08-14T10:18:00.008+05:30

The book has come home!

An esteemed guest is welcomed by women carrying pots of water...a scarce commodity in the desert. They will bathe their visitor's feet and sing the welcoming Suhaila.

I thought it fitting that my first sketch should welcome my readers in the traditional manner.

Look for pages with a pair of birds and pick out the bardic legends that have been frozen in time. Turn to the next page for the facts that formed the basis of the legend.
Look for Skinner's yellow boys as they escort Captain Tod across Rajputana. Together they have preserved the memory of the land as it was in the early 1800s.
For those of my readers who may be as geographically and directionally challenged as me, I have painted several maps superimposing modern India over ancient India.

The Royal Rajputs ...the Blurb

2008-08-13T10:41:00.000+05:30

WHO gathered the riches of Amber (Jaipur)?
WHEN did Maharana Sanga lose his eye?
WHY is the raja of Bikaner called the emperor?
WHERE was Mira Bai’s home?
HOW did the Hadas get their name?
WHICH son of Lord Krishna became the king of a Sikh kingdom?
The story of the Rajputs is a colourful tapestry growing steadily on the loom of time. For centuries, their genealogical memory had been locked away in the custody of the Bhats (hereditary priests) while ballads sung by the charuns (bards) offered but a tantalizing view of a veiled world driven by honour and passion. Researching the land and its people yielded a bounty of surprising secrets. From the swashbuckling tales of gallantry and romance emerged the historical account of the men and women who call themselves the descendents of kings.
This is also a human tale of scandal and intrigue, moustaches and harems. Custom, tradition and memories born in those early days all have their reasons. So do the locations of battles and forts.
Narrated in the light of an unbroken factual history, Royal Rajputs teems with timeless tales waiting to be told. This book appeals to the lover of history, the tourist who wishes that his guide knew more, to the traveller spotting a chattri off the beaten track and to those who revel in a story well told.

The Book is here

2008-08-12T19:44:00.003+05:30

And this is what Giles Tillotson has to say:

Dr Bhattacharya's book is a mammoth achievement which should introduce Tod and the Rajputs to a whole new readership.

ISBN: 978-81-291-1127-2

size 9" x 6"

The Royal Rajputs

2008-08-12T11:34:00.005+05:30

The Royal Rajputs
Strange Tales & Stranger Truths

Manoshi Bhattacharya

200000 words, footnotes, timeline of the kings of Rajasthan and Delhi, 19th Century travelogue, 20 maps, bibliography, index, glossary of Indian terms.

Introduction:

Young James arrives to find India nervously awaiting a military takeover – yet another in her long sanguine history. The merchants of Britain strike the jackpot. Starting from the uncertain beginnings of a career in the East India Company’s army, James Tod discovers his passion for survey. But the highlight of his career in India is his appointment as political agent to the western Rajput states, which awakens his interest in the genealogy and the history of the Rajputs.

Mewar:

Tod arrives to find the court of Mewar in mourning. The Maharana, beleaguered by the current situation in Rajasthan, has been forced into pronouncing a death sentence upon his sixteen-year old daughter. The tale unwinds… We are transported to the 2nd Century AD, and the descendents of Lord Ram wander through Punjab and Gujarat, creating glittering legends, losing royal titles and living in obscurity until Bappa Rawal Guhilot snatches the throne of Chittaurgarh. After several ups and downs, Rawal Ratan Singh, with the legendary beauty – Padmini, by his side, ascends the throne. Her face is the cause of Mewar’s woes for Sultan Allauddin Khilji is determined to have her. The eighteen-year old queen eventually leads the women and children of Chittaur into the flames of Jauhar. Padmini, as it turns out, is no more than a myth and though Allauddin did indeed sack the great fort prompting Chittaurgarh’s first Jauhar, it was not for lust but for a vision far greater - that of securing a trade route. The Guhilot throne passes into the hands of the Sisodias. The story continues examining many legends until the age of the Mughals when the documenting of history receives a boost. Yet bardic tendency to add colour never pales. Jahangir is victorious eventually over the Sisodias, the last of the independent Rajputs. For years, Rana Pratap, despite having lost his kingdom, had held out against Akbar, spawning admiration and envy while Maan Singh craved Pratap’s surrender. Why did Maan Singh, crown prince of Amber – the great general who created Akbar’s Indian empire, find it so necessary to overcome a fellow Rajput who had fallen upon hard times? Jahangir and Shah Jahan turn out to be more than sympathetic towards the Mewaris. But their graciousness is salt to an open wound and no sooner does Aurungzeb mount the throne that the Rajputs break out in open rebellion. The story of Mewar ends with depredations by foreign marauders and Marathas and the arrival of the British – one-time trade allies, now colonial masters.

Marwar:

Setram and Sihoji ride into the land of death - Maroo. The Rathores deny their ancient roots and instead fabricate a beginning from the ashes of Kannauj. They struggle to gain recognition battling tribals and Bhati Rajputs who for centuries have laid claim to the title of Desert Lord. Suddenly there is a chance to grab at the throne of their overlord for the child that sits upon the coveted throne carries Rathore blood. The result is a falling out with the house of the Sisodias, the seperation of Marwar and Mewar forever. Jodha starts afresh and builds a new capital - Jodhpur. His brothers and sons father their own clans and the equations that are set in those early days are to last forever. Thus will the descendents of Jodha’s eldest brother, the thakur of Bagri, always be the first to anoint a new Rathore king and the sons of Champa and Kumpa retain their place as the premier nobles of Maroo. The sons of Jodha rally to Maharana Sanga’s side on that fateful day at Bayana when Babur takes on the Rajput forces. The victorious Mughal erects a pyramid with the heads of the slain and declares himself – Ghazi. The stories provide an insight into the popularly held concept of Sati – so vilified today. When Jodha’s great-grandson, Ganga, dies, he is joined on his pyre by five of his queens. Yet Padmavati, Maharana Sanga’s daughter, chooses not to be one of them. She is allowed to return home to Mewar. Sanga himself does not force Sati upon his unfortunate daughter-in-law, Mira – the self-proclaimed bride of Lord Krishna. It is clear that Sati is a choice that the woman makes. Ganga’s successor, Maldeo, succumbs to Akbar. These are elderly men, experienced in the craft of diplomacy and war, who cow down before the youth. But in the long run Marwar is saved, as its kings accept Mughal offices and win for their people peace and prosperity. The gallantry of the Rathores fills their annals with swashbuckling tales and legends of love that overwhelm the visitor to the desert. The story of Marwar ends with Tod paying Ajit’s great-grandson a visit. He discovers an intelligent man who puts up a guise of insanity to keep his scheming nobles at bay.

Bikaner:

Jodha’s son, impatient to test his fortune, builds for himself the junior Rathore kingdom of Bikaner. But destiny hands to him heirlooms that belong with the head of the Rathore clan or perhaps it is the will of Karni Mata who laid Bikaner’s foundation stone herself. Her temple at Deshnok, a haven for divine rats, still draws devotees from around the world. But Bikaner, prone to attack lying out in the open desert, sees wisdom in joining hands with Akbar. Its princes rise to become distinguished generals.

Bundi & Kota:

The Hada Chauhans, offshoots of the Chauhans of Ajmer, are deprived of their kingdom by Allauddin Khilji and receive sanctuary in Mewar. Gradually edged out, they become confined within a valley - Bundi. Mewar continues to demand unending loyalty but the Hada spirit cannot be subdued. Rao Hamoo chases Maharana Lakha away and Kumbho Bair Singh Hada, who despite being in the Maharana’s personal service, insists upon defending a clay model of Bundi that has been set up only to be destroyed and appease the miffed sovereign. Rao Narayan Das springs to the defence of Chittaur and wins himself the hand of a princess. The ancient Chauhan fort of Ranthambhor, lost for centuries, is returned to Bundi and to celebrate, a wedding is held within its precincts. Within days, the armies of Akbar knock at its doors. A treaty is negotiated and Ranthambhor changes hands yet again marking the beginning of the Hada-Mughal alliance. Though legend speaks of Akbar’s impatience with Rao Raja Bhoj, who refuses to shave his moustache despite an imperial command, the bond remains firm. Kota is carved out of Bundi and made independent when Jahangir wishes to honour a younger son of the Bundi Rao.

Amber & Jaipur:

Princess Heera weds Akbar and changes the destiny of her people. Mirza Maan Singh and Raja Sawai Jai Singh get to play roles of a lifetime. Jai Singh and Ajit of Marwar are contemporaries and when Ajit dies Jai Singh is quick to snatch the new raja of Marwar - young Abhay, for his daughter. But the scholarly father-in-law and brawny son-in-law are often at loggerheads, much to the amusement of the Mughal court. Jaipur suffers the rise of the Marathas and its share of changelings and malicious gossip. Raja Sawai Jagat Singh competes with the raja of Marwar for the hand of the princess of Mewar driving the poor girl to suicide. Jaipur resists the British and is the last to sign a treaty with them.

Jaisalmer:

Soon after the great battle of Mahabharat, Lord Krishna’s descendents are ousted from Dwarka. They travel west and set up kingdoms in Afghanistan. Ghazni belongs to them and the proof lies in a wooden throne that they treasure. Though the ancient capitals of Tanot, Deorawal and Lodurva lie in ruins, Jaisalmer maintains its distinction as the oldest fort in Rajasthan to remain in continuous occupation. Its rawals make their money looting imperial caravans and despite severe retaliation will not give up their lucrative trade. Love and magic blossom on the desert sands and tales of tantra are woven to explain their unaccounted wealth. Their women are remembered in song - Padmini - queen of Chittaur, Mumal - whose ready wit enchanted the prince of Umarkot and the graceful Maru - who drew to her side Dhola prince of Narwar. Rawal Sabal Singh is the first to join the Mughals but the court of Jaisalmer like that of Bundi and Kota falls prey to domineering ministers. It all ends on a happy note – the kingdoms are at peace and Rajasthan celebrates a triple wedding.

And then there was James Fraser

2008-08-08T18:23:00.000+05:30

Skinner's durbar:

William Fraser was the regiment's second-in-command. His brother, James, arrived from Britain in search of his fortune and the two toured the Himalayas. James Baillie Fraser sketched all along the way, fascinated by the clothes, the appearances and the diversity of all that he saw.

It was James that looked after Skinner's children during the holidays in Britain. But his new wife, who had seen nothing in her life but Scotland, could not stand the half-bloods running through her house.

Skinner sent a letter from Delhi thanking his friend for looking after his 'poor black children' and requested him to keep his distance.

St James's Church built by James Skinner in Delhi

William Fraser 'Agent to the Governor General of India and Commissioner of the Dehly Territory' was assassinated within a few yards of his own Residence on Sunday evening the 22nd March 1835 about ½ past 7 o’Clock when returning from a Visit of Ceremony to Maharaja Kalyan Singh, Chief of Kishengarh, then residing in our city. It was an assassin employed by Nawab Shams-ud-din of Ferozpur (said to be Mirza Ghalib's cousin who had been trying desperately for years to get the British government to release the family pension). William was given an hasty burial near the Residency and later exhumed and reburied in the churchyard of St. James's church.

James Tod & James Skinner

2008-08-07T11:52:00.005+05:30

Udaipur, 12 October 1819: the time of departure had arrived. Since his appointment as political agent, Captain James Tod had remained stationed in Udaipur, overseeing the signing of the agreements between the princely Rajput states and the East India Company. Nearly two years had been spent in the most romantic spot in India. The valley had been explored until every rock, tree and tower had become familiar. It was time to pay an official visit to the court of the desert king, Maharaja Maan Singh, who ruled from Mehrangarh, the great fort of Jodhpur.

The mission included the captain’s cousin, Captain Patrick Waugh, Lieutenant Cary and Dr Duncan. Accompanying them was a large retinue of cooks, stewards and helpers, baggage camels and elephants, while two companies of foot soldiers and sixty Skinner’s Horse formed the escort. Trumpets sounded at the crack of dawn and the men were ready to move. Skinner’s yellow boys and their Indian commandant looked cheerful. Smartly turned out in bright yellow tunics and scarlet turbans with silver edged girdles and black shields, they were the most orderly and efficient of soldiers in the Company’s service. The palace drums sounded. Maharana Bhim Singh had sent a guard of honour to see off his British friends.

Skinner's Yellow Boys

STAMP: Painting of Skinner's Horse released as a stamp on the 175th Anniversary in 1978.

James Skinner, born of a Scottish father and a Rajputni mother, led an irregular cavalry division. Rejected by the British for his Indian blood, the eighteen-year-old found employment with the Marathas. In 1803, as the Marathas prepared to take on the British, they were forced to discharge all those with foreign blood, despite their proven loyalty. Whereas the Holkars beheaded theirs, the Scindia general – Perron – preferred to discharge his lot.

Skinner leaves behind a graphic account of his vain attempt to get himself reinstated.

Perron’s words were, ‘Go away Monsieur Skinner. I no trust.’

The same fears prevented him from receiving a commission in the Company’s service but eventually Lord Lake, the British commander in north India, permitted Skinner’s Horse to fight as an irregular cavalry troop.

As the Company’s mounted guerrillas, their job was to ride ahead of the main force and worry the enemy cutting off their supply lines. In time, Skinner’s Horse was absorbed into the Company’s army and James received the rank of captain. But a condition remained. Never would he send his yellow boys against his first master – Scindia.

Puja Mythology - Click to enlarge

2008-07-20T16:46:00.002+05:30

Pujo is Coming - Click to enlarge

2008-07-18T12:25:00.004+05:30

The Ekchala with all idols set against a single reed mat.

The Company Puja

2008-07-17T10:15:00.006+05:30

1757: The Battle of Plassey delivered the Bengali from the hands of the Siraj-ud-daulah into those of Clive. The frying pan and the fire had yet to be identified but the Hindus rejoiced in the hope of a new beginning.

The bounty that had suddenly been heaped upon them left the British astounded. A thanksgiving was in order. But Siraj-ud-daulah had left not one church standing in Bengal.

‘Lay your offerings at the feet of my goddess,’ said his money lender. Nobo Krishna Deb was a shrewd man.

Clive and his officers arrived at Shobha Bazaar to attend the Deb family’s Durga Puja. It came to be known as the Company Puja.

It set a precedent amongst the upcoming merchant class. The number of Britishers attending added to their social prestige.

Europeans being Entertained by William Prinsep, of the Palmer & Co. Calcutta

Flowering time in Rajasthan

2008-07-06T14:47:00.008+05:30

There was once a time when it was the flowers that decided the borders of kingdoms. Even the mighty had to bow before the will of nature.

Where the amla put forward its greeny-gold blossoms the land belonged to ancient Mewar.

But where the babool, the local kikar, raised its thorny branches, with its bright yellow flowers round and soft as little balls of cotton set amidst its tiny leaves, the land was most certainly claimed by death itself...the ancient kingdom of Maroo or Marwar.

As the old saying goes:

Aonla Aonla Mewar
Babool Babool Marwar

What is growing amongst the weeds this season?

2008-07-06T10:02:00.008+05:30

Toxic Blooms

June Blooms

2008-06-28T14:46:00.023+05:30

Vegetarians? Us?

2008-06-25T10:40:00.012+05:30

‘But fish is a vegetable where Bengalis are concerned? Do you not call it a jal-tari – a water vegetable?’

I have now heard this from many a wide eyed non-bong.

True we are omnivorous as a community…that is we have remained the way God intended us to be…but we do have our share of vegetarianism.

And when we say vegetarian we probably outdo every other community in variety, quantity, flavour and last but not the least in following it to the ‘T’.

ONION, GARLIC ….very very non-vegetarian. How many Jains and other so called veg-Indians can claim to be as virtuous a vegetarian as our vegetarians? None. Not even the vegans that have now begun to flood the world.

Who but a Bengali can serve a vegetarian (Nirameesh) mutton curry as an offering to Kali on the night of Kali Puja?

Nirameesh you say?

Well, goat meat or lamb neither of them can measure up to the onion and the garlic on, I guess it should be called, the SIN SCALE. Cook the mutton without the perverse onion and garlic and you have a perfectly pious casserole.

But on a serious note think about a poribeshon kora lunch or dinner plate – one that the matriarch has taken care to supervise keeping in mind her family’s health needs. I simply cannot find the English equivalent of poribeshon kora. Next think of a similar platter from anywhere in India …lets be bold…anywhere in the world. Sure, I agree that the glory lies in the fish head, fish slices, meat curry etc but not one Bengali can ever get to that part of the meal without having to wade through copious amounts of shukto – the bitter mixed veg stew which is meant to cleanse the system, or the neem-begun (neem leaves with brinjal) or the karala-chorchori (bitter gourd with potatoes and brinjals)…remember one cannot just mix any old vegetable…there is quite a precise formula; the bhaja (fries) to tempt the palate; the dal (pulses for that first bit of protein kick)...different ones for different days …and of course not uniformly flavoured with the pyaz-tamatar-ka-tarka; the dry vegetables – the chorchori, ghonto, chechki; the wet vegetables – the dalna …foods that do not require a dal to provide the moist accompaniment; the very wet stew or jhol …a wonderful combination of vegetables and fish; the sweet chutneys that follow the non-veg items…to clear the palate of the strong flavours before the gently flavoured desserts can be served.

Note again the quantity of every item that is served…perhaps we are the only community that does not pick at their vegetables delicately. Come to think of it, we are hearty eaters.

Spare a moment for the way in which the humble import from South America transforms itself for the Bengali.

Every mother instructing the daughters in the art of fine cooking issues the following instructions for cutting the potato:

· Bhatey: the mashed version spiced with pungent mustard oil and green chillies
· Jhiri –Jhiri: fine strips that get fried to a crisp to go along with the dal
· Gol: thin flat round slices for a softer juicier fried version
· Chand: thick crescents for the jhol,
medium ones for shukto and chorchori
fine crescents for the fiery jhaal with mustard
· Lomba: like French-fries for Potol (Parwal) chorchori. Another variation is to cut the potato lengthwise into 4 sections, then slice each section diagonally into half. Here the potol is cut exactly like the potato.
· Dumo-Dumo: for the dalna where the potato is cut lengthwise, each half is cut once again lengthwise into two and chopped into 1 inch pieces retaining the curve on one side
· A finer dumo version: for aloo posto and ghonto
· Aadh-khana: halves for aloo-dum, mutton korma and macher kalia (fish kalia)

The northerner's fondness for Paneer (cottage cheese) however failed to percolate into Bengal. One can spot a non-probashi Bong by his wrinkled nose and the evident distaste on his face.

'Poneer?'

Channa (again cottage cheese) on the other hand caters exclusively to the famous Bengali sweet-tooth.

Vegetarianism in Bengal is probably as old as Vaishnavism and predates Chaitanya by several centuries. But even amongst the non-Vaishnavs it has developed into an art form catering to the days when fasts are observed, to the tastes of widows who may wish to continue with tradition and for the masses who are out to enjoy God’s abundance.

And No. Fish is quite definitely non-vegetarian. But where exactly on the SIN SCALE ?...well below onion and garlic obviously.

Neo Vaishnavism in Bengal

2008-06-22T16:41:00.000+05:30

Chronicler, Antiquarian and Historian

2008-06-20T16:03:00.000+05:30

JAMES TOD (1782-1835), British officer and Oriental scholar, was born on the 20th of March 1782, and went to India as a cadet in the Bengal army in 1799. He commanded the escort attached to the resident with Sindia from 1812 to 1817. In the latter year he was in charge of the Intelligence Department which largely contributed to breakup the confederacy of Maratha chiefs in the Pindari War, and was of great assistance in the campaign in Rajputana. In 1818 he was appointed political agent for the states of western Rajputana, where he conciliated the chieftains, settled their mutual feuds and collected materials for his Annals and Antiquities of Rajasthan (2 vols., 1829-1832). Another book of value, Travels in Western India (1839), was published posthumously. He returned from India in 1823, was promoted lieutenant-colonel in 1826, and died in London on the 17th of November 1835.

from the Classic Encyclopedias

Of the legends of Rajasthan

2008-06-20T15:27:00.000+05:30

The citadel of Komulmer (Kumbhalgarh)

It is only in the cold season that the mirage is visible; the sojourners of Maroo call it see-kote or ‘castles in the air.’

In the deep desert to the westward, the herdsmen and travellers through the regions style it chittram, ‘the picture’; while about the plains of the Chumbul and Jumna they term it dessasur, ‘the omen of the quarter.’…

Let the reader fancy himself in the midst of a desert plain, with nothing to impede his scope of vision, his horizon bounded by a lofty black wall encompassing him on all sides.

Let him watch the first sunbeam break upon this barrier, and at once, as by a touch of magic, shiver it into a thousand fantastic forms, leaving a splintered pinnacle in one place, a tower in another, an arch in a third; these in turn undergoing more than kaleidoscopic changes, until the “fairy fabric” vanishes.

Here it was emphatically called Hurchund Raja ca poori or ‘the city of Raja Hurchund,’ a celebrated prince of the brazen age of India.

Lt. Col. James Tod

Flowering time in Bengal

2008-06-16T10:02:00.000+05:30

'Look amongst the verses of Robi Thakur and you will know when the flowers bloom,' said my mother.

Shewli’r dale kuri bhore elo. ....The branches of the Shewli are fast filling up with buds
Togor phutilo mela..... .............The Togor is blooming a plenty
Madhobilotar khoj niye jai...... The Madhavilata’s news is sought
Moumachi dui bela.................. By the honeybee twice a day.

Robi Thakur

'And do not forget Kalidas!'

Shundori’r padaghate Ashok phool phote….When a beautiful woman strikes the Ashok tree with her foot it
shall burst into flower.

Kalidas

Ashok Shashti, the onset of spring, went by on the 1April 2008 when traditionally the mothergoddess Shashti, the preserver of children, is remembered and the Ashok flower eaten by all mothers.

Flowering time in Delhi

2008-06-11T17:03:00.000+05:30

The stories that have come down from my grandparents have left me with vivid impressions of Bengal…the rich dark earth, the lily pools, the sparkling streams and leaping fish. To the picture my young mind added a clear blue sky, dotted with fluffy white clouds and a cool breeze that blew all year round. A countryside that never lay bare and boasted of either ripe golden grain waving in the breeze or young green shoots standing in flooded fields. My picture is perfect. I really do not wish to test its authenticity.

But Delhi is real and amidst the heat and dust and the negligence of the MCD lies a pretty picture that can occasionally push itself through the apathy into the consciousness. All of a sudden one day in May I was forced to notice that the red gulmohar and the dangling yellow lanterns of the amaltas had set the streets on fire. Does my grandparent’s homeland come alive like this? Quietly? Unobtrusively?

Hot and sweaty from my walk, I stumbled as I entered the gates. The paved tiles, once a lovely shade of mauve and blue, have been long reduced to a dull uniform grey. But scattered amongst them were tiny white flowers. In all these twelve years that I had lived here I was seeing them for the very first time. I picked up a few.

The chowkidar came rushing. ‘Kuch kho gaya?’

I nodded taking a deep whiff of the powerful perfume that lay in my palm. The tree? Where did it come from? I couldn’t recognize it. It didn’t seem to look like the one that stood outside my grandfather’s house, the one that he planted when he first built his home in Delhi. But there was no mistaking the fragrance. It was the bokul. I had strung them into little garlands many many years ago.

But more than thirty years have passed since then and a new thought came into my mind. This perfume is strong enough to trigger a migraine. I made my way home with my precious little handful leaving a bemused chowkidar behind and marvelled at the emotions that played across my mother’s face as I handed them to her.

Does the bokul flower in Bengal at this time? I wonder?

Wasn’t there a whiff of the powder puff like yellowy-green shirish last night as I shut the windows before switching on the air conditioner?

It made me look at Delhi anew. The years are past when my mother pointed out the flowers to me. But they are all still there. The champa or the temple flower – the creamy scented frangipani – is all around nestling in clusters amongst the thick dark glossy leaves, and the madhavilata has pushed its bunches of flowers rather aggressively through the grills along the railings. There was a time when I would break the flowers and suck at the nectar not caring whether it drew little ants into my mouth. Madhavilata

Now that I have begun remembering, did I not spot all of Shiv Thakur's favourites amongst the weeds...the large bells of the pristine dhutra (datura), the white and mauve akanda (calotropis) bunched up amongst the thick leaves almost turgid with poisonous milky sap? Is it just coincidence that Shiv's flowers come into season before Durga's little shewli?

The tough bougainvillea adorns Delhi all year long, and the brightly coloured lantana – one whose infamous past has long been forgotten – has invaded the mehendi hedges. Their uncomplaining abundance has driven them from popular notice.
The Oleander...The Bengali Karabi...comes in shades of white, pink and yellow.

But this year I must remember the flowers that had been a part of the old stories and keep a lookout for them as the seasons turn.

Permanent Settlement Act

2008-06-10T20:32:00.000+05:30

Bengal Renaissance CLICK ON POSTER TO ENLARGE

2008-06-09T15:31:00.000+05:30

Jamaishashti

2008-06-07T19:21:00.000+05:30

Like I said sometime back, the Probashi Bengali community in Delhi was a little one. Everybody knew everybody more so when a wedding was being celebrated.

My maternal grandmother came from Bengal to marry my grandfather. The bride-to-be was to spend her first days in Delhi in her Pishemoshai’s house. It is an interesting fact about kinship amongst Bengalis…we have a specific designation for every relationship.

We do not hide behind a confused generic title of aunt or uncle. Her Pishemoshai was the husband of her father’s sister, that is her Pishi, and as the son-in-law of the family he was entitled to respect, the best of hospitality and pampering. The Jamai or the Bengali son-in-law has a special place in the family and a mere social visit occasions great celebrations. The favourite son gladly relinquishes his position as his mother and father fawn over his sister’s husband. But as if this is not enough, one day in every year is set aside exclusively for pampering and pandering. It is the Jamaishashti…as a matter of fact …Monday next… 9 June 2008.

The mother-in-law will fast all day and pray to Shasti, a form of the mother-goddess that dedicates herself to the preservation of children. Having concluded her private negotiations with Ma Shashti, these fortunate mothers-in-law proceed to whip up the finest of Bengali cuisine. The fathers-in-law having supervised the catch for the day, usually the largest & the fattest (the Bengali word for it is paka or ripe) rohu that was being saved all year long, bred in the fresh water pond that supplies the family’s need for carp and other sundry fish, would march of to the market, black umbrella in hand to buy personally the Bengali salmon – the hilsa, the blue freshwater jumbo prawns and the meat to be served. Another curious thing about Bengalis is that chicken has been frowned upon till as late as twenty years ago, and was not to be touched. Jungle fowl hunted in the wild, on the other hand was more than welcome. A discerning lot these old timers, considering the rather boring flavour of chicken today fattened as it is upon fishmeal.

The Jamai sits down, dressed in the clothes gifted to him on this occasion, accompanied by his father-in-law and joining them, if he is very lucky, is the eldest of his wife’s brothers. The small fry? Not a chance. They have to be content with leftovers.

One need not elaborate on the courses and the stages of a formal Bengali meal, the neat upturned cup of steamed rice in the centre, the fragrant ghee, the five fried vegetables, the many little bowls surrounding the central thala bearing green leafy combinations, the roasted faintly sweetened mung bean dal, the potatoes coated with the crushed seeds of the poppy, the richness of the carp curry, the fiery mustard gravy offsetting the delicate aroma of the hilsa caught in the short while that it spends in the fresh sweet water of the river before returning to its home in the sea, the redolent whole jumbo prawns that lend an orange colour to the coconut milk gravy, and the culmination of the meal with the rich aromatic meat curry. One need not elaborate on the tart sweetness of the mango or pineapple chutney to cleanse the palate before readying the mind for the last course. A new earthenware pot of sweet curds is opened and the creamy top reserved for the man of the day, the series of sweets in their delicate syrup base and the paish the rice pudding…never to be compared with the watered down version enjoyed by those not from the community. One need not elaborate on any of this for while the Probashi is danger of losing his language and his cultural heritage; the food culture has never been threatened. It has not just survived but can even be said to have thrived outside Bengal.

But my heart bleeds for those whose daughters have chosen to marry vegetarians. As for my grandmother, she will have to wait another day before the story of her wedding can be told.

We The Middle Class - Click on poster to enlarge

2008-05-30T11:18:00.000+05:30

Lotus Blossom VI

2008-05-27T10:40:00.000+05:30

‘No,’ sobbed the father.

‘Yes,’ said Time.

‘It was her beauty that drew so many men, women and children to their deaths. She wiped a dynasty out of the pages of history’

‘No,’ said Time.

‘She was my daughter,’ wept the father. ‘The sultan would never have been able to resist her. She had to be the cause of unnumbered woes for those that loved her. I knew it in that first moment that I cradled her in my arms.’

No old man. It was not your daughter.’

‘But it was my Lotus Blossom…my Padmini. Why was her husband so foolish? Why did he let the sultan lay his eyes on her?’

‘No. No. He never allowed anyone a glimpse.’

‘But he had glimpse of her reflection in a mirror.’

‘No. Not in a mirror nor even in a pond. No one ever saw her at all.’

‘Then,’ whispered the father, ‘how did the sultan of Hindustan become so besotted with her? Did he not enter the fort declaring himself a brother to my daughter? Did he not kidnap my son-in-law from before the very eyes of his men and demand my daughter in exchange?’

‘Old man, it was never about your daughter.’

‘It was my daughter that rescued her husband. If it weren’t for her presence of mind the soldiers could never have entered the sultan’s camp pretending to be highborn ladies escorting the beautiful Padmini.’

‘Old man, it was never about your daughter. It was the fort that the sultan was after.’

‘I should have killed her the moment she was born. It is I who have driven so many to their deaths.’

‘Neither you nor your daughter was at fault…for your Lotus Blossom was never queen of Mewar.’

The father looked astounded.

Then Time spoke very low. ‘There was never a queen called Padmini in Chittaurgarh during the time of Sultan Allauddin Khalji. No Padmini ever burnt in the flames of that first Jauhar…The bards…they made up the tale to soften the blow.’

The father’s eyes looked uncomprehending. He continued to mutter. ‘It was all because my brave and wonderful daughter was such a beauty. No one, not even Time will ever wipe away her memory.’

Interior view of Chittaurgarh sketched by Major Patrick Waugh in the early 1800s. Click to enlarge.

Lotus Blossom V

2008-05-26T12:55:00.000+05:30

Mughal Miniature of a Jauhar in Rajasthan. Click to enlarge.

The hilltop lay swathed in curling black tendrils of smoke.

The bodies of Rajput men lined the eastern path leading up to the greatest of all Rajput forts.

Allauddin Khalji, the sultan of Hindustan, stepped over the last one to enter the Gate of the Sun.

The smell of burning flesh assailed the nostrils. He took an involuntary step backwards.

Disgust.

It was written all over his face.

Then he noticed the silence. There was not even the whimper of a child.

'Let the temples and the blasphemous art and architecture be destroyed.'

The vandals set to work.

Of the little that was left was a palace attributed to Queen Padmini.

Lotus Blossom IV

2008-05-24T17:27:00.000+05:30

For two years the father’s heart remained at peace.

Then came the news.

The call had been sent out. The greatest and the grandest of all Rajput forts was under siege. The sultan of Hindustan led the attack personally. But he was no Hindu. Rajputs from all over the land rallied to the side of their overlord for the preservation of the leading family and the old fort was a cause closest to Rajput hearts.

There was no end to the bad news that kept pouring in.

The defenders were dying.

Why had the emperor gone after them in this manner?

The answer lay in the anguish of a father’s heart. It was her face. Her beauty was to be the ruin of them all.

The end was near.

Twelve-year-old Badal who had accompanied his aunt when she married escaped from the battlefield to be by her side.

She had been at her prayers all night long and now before the first light of dawn could break she had bathed and had dressed as a new bride once again.

She was calm and when she turned to look at him her eyes were unusually dark and lustrous.

The priests had been chanting through the night and now, as they recited from the Gita, the eighteen-year-old queen led the queens, the women and the children to the great fire that had been lit in the Mahasati.

She paused before the blaze.

‘Tell me Badal, tell me once again about my piya?’

’He was the reaper of the harvest of battle. I followed his steps as a humble gleaner of his sword. On the gory bed of honour, he spread a carpet of the slain, a “barbarian” prince his pillow, he has laid himself down and sleeps surrounded by the foe. Oh, mother! How further can I describe his deeds, when he left no foe to dread or admire him.’

The young queen smiled.

‘My lord will chide me for my delay.’

Lotus Blossom III

2008-05-23T14:38:00.000+05:30

A dark skinned beauty has been crowned maharani and has taken her place beside her husband who is seated beneath the royal umbrella and the chatur changi with its golden disc emblazoned on the black ostrich feathers. Of all his wives it will be she who will rule the zenana.

It is her name that is to be immortalized in legend by the people of the land. The man who has made her queen will lose his identity to a series of historical blunders.

In her veins runs the proud blood of the Chauhans.

Chauhan clans from the north to the south of India rush to claim her as their own. The great Hamir Sank Chauhan, of the island known today as Sri Lanka, claims her as his daughter. But when the poet Malik Mohammad sits down to write the Padmavat he writes her down as the daughter of King Gandharv Sen and Queen Champavati.

But in the distant corner of the desert, a man who once had been king, knows deep down in his heart that this is the daughter that had been born to Jam Kanwar, his Chauhani queen.

It has to be Lotus Blossom; she would be all of sixteen now; no longer a blossom; rather a flower in full bloom.

Lotus Blossom II

2008-05-15T19:34:00.000+05:30

The grand old fort crowned the top of an isolated hill. In its centre lay clear pools of water and on the banks of one such pool stood Lotus Blossom’s palace. It looked down upon the lush green plains that ran eastwards for miles until they were stopped by a formidable chain of mountains. Two sparkling mountain streams ran across the plains and along the base of the hill making their way north towards the great river.

To the west of Lotus Blossom’s palace stood the densely wooded plateau of central India where amidst the dark tangles abounded tigers and deer and wild boar.

Daughters...Lotus Blossom I

2008-05-14T13:43:00.000+05:30

Picture a new born opening her eyes for the first time. Picture a father cradling his infant daughter in his arms. Feel the shiver that passes through his body, the goosebumps that make their prickly presence felt over his spine and his arms. Watch him as he shuts eyes in agony. A daughter has been born in a Rajput household.

Imagine the father’s plight for which man can be strong enough to shield such a beauty. The baby gurgles and kicks her strong little legs. She is determined to live.

What can the poor man do? He names her his Lotus Blossom and from that day begins to look for a suitable son-in-law.

The years are spent keeping the girl hidden from greedy eyes: eyes that belong to the most powerful, eyes that belong to those that are not from their community.

At last a prince finds courage and accepts her hand. She comes with no dowry, nothing but her tremendous beauty and her destiny. But her new family rejoices. Her prince lives beyond the sands, on the top of an isolated hill in the oldest fort known to mankind.

In the centre of his invincible fort he has built for her a palace that reflects onto a small clear lake of limestone water. In it lie huge crocodiles. But on the edges and on the roof of the palace are great flocks of grey herons and blazing flamingos. The fifteen year old princess settles in.

The father heaves a sigh of relief. He has done his duty.

The Probashi and memories of the kaalboishakhi

2008-05-04T19:28:00.000+05:30

4 May 08: 5.30 pm: A dust storm whirls around the windows of the fifth floor whistling into the cracks. The countryside, usually visible for miles, loses itself behind a brown haze. The multi-storey that stands in front is the only thing still visible as the shadowy outlines of the silver-oaks that line the path toss their branches giving in to the wind. The rituals remain the same.

‘Aandhi!’ We rush to the window.

Thirty years ago it had been no different.

Windows slammed shut. Doors closed with a bang and latches slid into place. The evening would give way to sudden darkness. Light? Out of the question. The first gust had blown out the electricity. A dust storm was no nuisance in those days. It had great potential to be enjoyed.

Three little girls, all cousins but they weren't really sure what that meant, and a grandmother huddled in the dark. The storm was at liberty to expend its energy in the huge courtyard on one side of the room and on the lawns and in the branches of the mango trees on the other.

The pale green blossoms of the mango had given way to tiny fruit dark and …the mouth fills with saliva at the thought of the sour freshness. Not much flesh yet and the seed still soft.

Eager eyes peered through the window on to the lawn. The banana plant waved its leafy branches swaying like a man possessed.

Sweat prickled its way down the spine and hung in little beads along the neck. A little girl pursed her lips and blew. Her sister shuddered and smiled. The breath was cool on her hot little body.

The storm had come to an abrupt end. Doors and windows were thrown open and cool fresh air rushed into the room. Mothers and aunts were already on their way across the courtyard towards the kitchen taking stock of the situation.

The children rushed out onto the lawn…barefooted to catch the light drizzle that would not last long. The tiny mangoes lay scattered, hidden under piles of leaves shaken loose by the storm. Precious little piles lay guarded in each of the bunched up skirts. The grandmother moved about comfortably making a pile all of her own. She smiled as she inspected each little collection.

‘Go,’ she said. ‘Tell your mother to bring out the grinding stone.’

A child scampered off.

‘Bring the nicest banana leaf you can find.’

She made her way indoors.

Each little collection, deseeded and pounded to a pulp with a pinch of salt, a generous helping of sugar, a drizzle of pungent mustard oil and chilli flakes was stuffed into a neat green banana leaf cone. The triangular portion on top was tucked in to seal the packet. An aunt moved around with a pair of scissors snipping a little off the pointy ends.

‘Suck.’ She commanded.

The eyes crinkled with pleasure.

The grandmother’s collection went into a wok of hot spluttering mustard seeds. Her hands worked carelessly…effortlessly. A bowl of water, a scattering of salt and a pinch of turmeric…they all went in. As they bubbled up boiling and softening the little mangos in went generous handfuls of sugar.

The green mango stew? The aamer ombol?

That would not be on offer until it had cooled…until the fathers and uncles had all come home…until everyone sat down with the grandfather for dinner and finished every little bit that had been put onto their plates.

Mutiny Images

2008-05-02T09:38:00.000+05:30

The Flagstaff Tower, Delhi, where the British survivors of the rebellion gathered on May 11, 1857
The reaction in the United Kingdom:

The British Lion and the Royal Bengal Tiger

The Mutiny comes to Delhi

2008-05-02T09:23:00.000+05:30

Dilli, 1857.

A gun boomed somewhere. Ghalib went home and wrote in his diary:

'11 May 1857. Thursday. All directions are filled with the sounds of galloping hooves and scampering feet. After killing the Brits, the rebels camped in the city. They turned the gardens in the Fort into their stables…
The king emperor could not house such a large contingent nor provide for them, and as a fallout, he was swayed by its power.
The battle began and canon balls rained like pellets…’

The boom of a canon sounded in the distance.

From Mirza Ghalib, A Biographical Scenario by Gulzar

Red Fort Delhi.

10 May 1857 CLICK POSTER TO ENLARGE

2008-04-27T15:08:00.001+05:30

Turban Tales & Crescent Moons

2008-04-27T10:10:00.000+05:30

A rebellious son chafing for control. A drunken father lost in the arms of his latest wife. A helpless land watches as a power struggle unfolds.

Although he was the third in line he was the best. There was no doubt for his brothers were a bunch of drunkards. The eldest, the gentle one beloved of his people, had succumbed to a bout of diarrhoea…that had been the official report. The truth had been carefully guarded and the father mollified by his lovely wife. Her aunt was after all the empress who wielded her charms over her drunken husband.

‘For a few kebabs and a cup of wine I have sold the crown of Hindustan.’ The words were often on the emperor’s lips.

But now the empress had turned against him. The brother that was second in line assumed the duties of the heir and chased him across the country. With his wife and his children he fled to Udaipur. The maharana was a friend and offered him rooms in his palace. But he preferred a place of his own. An island in a lake was taken over and the maharana’s unfinished summer palace modified.

A dome was raised above which glittered a crescent. Carpets from Turkey were strewn on the floors and jasper, cornelian and agate adorned the walls.

The prince and the maharana exchanged turbans taking the oath of brothers in blood.

He left after a few months and after about an year took his place upon the throne of Hindustan as Emperor Shah Jahan. His turban remains even today in Udaipur.

The maharana’s son added the finishing touches to his father’s summer palace but left the crescent moon atop the dome undisturbed.

The silver anklet

2008-04-27T10:08:00.000+05:30

Children played on the ramparts. A foreign soldier took aim. It was the silver anklet that had helped him choose his target.

For he had come from across the Indus seeking vengeance.

Roshan Ali had come to India to spread the light. He had struggled and struggled with the people of the land and in a fit of rage had dipped his hand into a pot of curds meant for the king.

The king was unable to forgive him and ordered the offending fingers be slashed off. The bleeding fingers rose into the air and flew to west. They were recognized in Mecca and an army was launched. The missionary would have to be avenged.

The fort though it fell was recovered soon enough but Manik Rai Chauhan’s infant son had lost his life.

The silver anklet was to blame.

Never would a son this race ever sport one of them again.

The pass of Bundi.

2008-04-27T10:02:00.000+05:30

Her brother arranged for her the best match possible – the overlord of all the Rajputs had accepted her hand. She made her way to the rawala of Chittaurgarh her head held high.

Her brother had come visiting. She spent the day cooking for the two men in her life and now she sat punkha in hand supervising as the food was served.

But her husband seemed distracted. Could it be that he coveted her brother’s new wife?

Later during a private moment her grief burst out.

‘You played with your food and Soojo? He ate like a tiger.’

Her husband got up and left.

They had left. Gone hunting together. It was too late. Had they but told her before leaving she would have wept and pleaded and lain down on the floor.

How could they have ignored the curse?

Bad news travels fast. It came before the sun could set. Her brother and her husband were dead. The queens of Chittaurgarh rose as one to join their husband on his pyre.

But in death Sooja Bai returned to the valley of her forefathers. Her ashes were laid to rest in the pass that looked upon the fortress and town of Bundi.

Probashis and Independence

2008-04-26T08:59:00.001+05:30

The Probashi Bengali community in Delhi was a little one. Everybody knew everybody more so when a wedding was being celebrated. Brides came all the way from Bengal or from other probashi communities. They brought with them the flavours and the sartorial styles of the lands they had left behind.

My maternal grandmother came from Bengal to marry my Dal-Bati-Churma eating grandfather. His childhood, you see, had been spent in the arid Sambhar Didwana region of Rajasthan. He was a true-blue Bengali but Rajasthan had not failed to leave its mark. They made a pair, the two of them: my grandfather, towering and benign at his six-feet-one-inch and my grandmother at a proud four-feet-eight.

It was perhaps in the year that India became independent or the very next one that they went to attend the celebrations at Rashtrapati Bhavan. But of course nobody that day would dress in anything but traditional wear. Ladies draped their sari pallus over their heads in the manner of the day and were escorted by elegantly attired husbands who had discarded the European garb that had become synonymous with office wear.

Stewards bore trays of little cakes and sandwiches and poured out steaming cups of tea. The finest china and silverware had been put out for the guests. Afternoon tea on the lawns. The scene had remained frozen in time. Only the actors had changed.

A steward plucked at his elbow. ‘Mr Shyama Prasad Mukherjee wishes to meet you.’

My grandfather hurried to his side. This was the son of the famous judge Sir Ashutosh Mukherjee.

A broad smile split his face into two. ‘So good to meet a fellow Bengali.’

‘But how did you know?’

‘Arre Moshai. Your sleeves gave you away. No one but a true Bengali would wear his kurta with sleeves as loose as these.’

Shyama Prasad Mukherjee held up his own arm.

Strange Truth

2008-04-21T19:51:00.001+05:30

The identity of the Hindu prince who had precipitated the First Battle of Panipat?

He was the grandest of all Hindu princes of his time...and it is the likeness of his descendant that has been reproduced.

The First Battle of Panipat

2008-04-21T14:53:00.000+05:30

On the plains of Panipat the prize of India was up for grabs.

700 bullock drawn carts lashed together by chains formed a barrier in front of the army. Sufficient gaps had been left in between to let the cavalry charge through.

On the other side stood 100,000 men with 100 elephants.

The Timurid was sadly outnumbered but he had brought with him a new fangled weapon that was just coming into use in Turkey and Europe. And this was not his first time in India. He had tested its power earlier at Bajaur.

‘You are a born general.’ The emissary had stood before him, his head held low. He had brought with him gifts such as none had seen before. There were plates of jewels, not just rubies and turquoises that had been seen before in Badakshan, nor the heavy chunky Turki jewellery of the times but pearls and cornelians heaped over glittering diamonds, delicate filigree and brightly plumaged birds.

‘Sultan Ibrahim Lodi, he is nothing but an Afghan…he is young…careless in his movements, marches without orders, halts and retires without method and is enraged without foresight.’

The emissary’s eyes had not moved from his feet.

‘My master has vowed to march upon Agra if you will march upon Delhi.’

For the first time Babur had caught a glimpse of luminous eyes even though the head continued to be held low.

The battle began at half-past nine in the morning. The decisive moment came by late afternoon. The cavalry wheeled furiously around the enemy flanks delivering a charge in its rear.

The events of that first milestone of Indian history – 326 BC – were being repeated. The day would be counted as the second milestone in Indian history.

The sun went down touching the sky with a million tints of orange, scarlet and gold.

Sultan Ibrahim Lodi lay dead amongst 15000 of his men.

‘By the grace and mercy of Almighty God,’ said Babur aloud; ‘this day has been made easy for me.’

Babur marched into Delhi. His son Humayun was despatched to Gwalior whose prince’s body lay beside Ibrahim’s.

As for Agra? There was no news.

The most powerful of the Hindu princes of India had failed to keep his word.

He was exhausted but there was not a moment to be lost.

Babur marched upon Agra.

18 April 1930 CLICK POSTER TO ENLARGE

2008-04-17T17:24:00.000+05:30

Probashi - the Diaspora

2008-04-17T15:04:00.000+05:30

We are a family of probashi bangalis – the diaspora. Zealously we guard the Bengali culture inherited from our grandparents and great-grandparents who were among the last of the generations that had lived upon that red earth of Bengal. Even as I tucked into a plate of fish and vegetable stew, I listened with awe to the tales of a little girl who used the loose weave of the end of her sari to fish for shrimps amongst the paddy standing knee deep in the flooded field.

She was my grandmother, who had been forced by my grandfather’s British employers to move to Delhi with her brood of children. India, for her, was made up of three distinct sets of people – to Bengal’s north lived the Punjabis and to the south the Madrasis. She spoke no other language and through sheer goodwill and persistence had succeeded in teaching the gardener and the vegetable vendor Bengali. The fishmongers were never a problem – for they all spoke near fluent Bengali.

Our horizons were widening. Reluctantly the two of us had acknowledged that our Kashmiri neighbours were not Punjabis and that one could not get away by labelling those that could not be immediately typecast as Hindustanis. Were we Hindustanis? No. My six-year-old brain firmly denied it. Well then, Indian? There I was ready to concede.

‘If you lifted your aanchal quickly enough you were sure to catch a handful.’ She waved her handheld fan over my food shooing the flies away. The story had a cooling effect…wading through the water…and the green that stretched for miles.

The summer sun beat down upon the courtyard. It was her courtyard. She had to have a courtyard, she had insisted as my grandfather drew up plans for the house; a courtyard like the ones they had in Bengal or else it would be too stifling. It let in the sun and the rain and chilled us to the bone in the winters for no room in the house could be entered without passing through the courtyard first.

‘They are so tiny that rubbing them together in a bowl of water would remove the shells. A pinch of turmeric and salt and they would turn into crisp golden curls with the help of a little mustard oil. And the fragrance…such a fragrance. With a little steamed rice…a dusting of red chillie flakes…it was a feast for a king’

‘Go on now.’ Her tale came to an abrupt end. ‘You’ve finished eating. What more do you want?’

Rabindranath CLICK POSTER TO ENLARGE

2008-04-16T14:54:00.000+05:30

14 April 2008

2008-04-16T10:02:00.000+05:30

Shubho Poila Baisakh...On this auspicious occasion of the first day of the month of Baisakh let me wish you a very Bengali shubho noboborsho and a happy new year. The Tamils are going home for Bishu.Punjab is dancing to the tunes of the Bhangra while celebrating Baisakhi. India is looking forward to a new year. But Bengalis all over the world are looking for the next celebration...the twenty fifth of Baisakh on 8 May 2008...the birth anniversary of the nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore.

Waves CLICK POSTER TO ENLARGE

2008-04-16T09:18:00.000+05:30