Puja Mythology - Click to enlarge

Pujo is Coming - Click to enlarge

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

The Company Puja

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

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?

Toxic Blooms

June Blooms

Vegetarians? Us?

‘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

Chronicler, Antiquarian and Historian

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

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

'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

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

Bengal Renaissance CLICK ON POSTER TO ENLARGE