The garment and the goddess

My husband and I went on a feel-Kolkata nostalgia trip. I am from Kolkata, he is from Lucknow. This walk down memory lane was his gift to me.

I am a Calcuttan; grew up there, studied and worked there. I was somewhere in the warp and weft of the city’s fabric; a thread that retained its texture, flavour and culture even after having been separated from it.

This time, when I revisited my city and explored it, I realised how little I knew about it, how much I had taken my city for granted.

We set out exploring the city like two college students, sometimes by foot, sometimes by public transport.

The morning had begun with the sharp rays of the sun, but it was soon diffused by the rush of clouds as if protecting us. The riverside was breezy as we took the launch, settling ourselves near the railing for a clear view of the river, stunningly silhouetted by the Howrah bridge.

We wanted more of the ride as the boat dropped anchor at the Howrah pier. So after a sumptuous breakfast of puris and aloo bhaji washed down by an earthenware cup of hot tea at a roadside eatery, we sat on a boat to go across to Kumartuli, an erstwhile village and now part of the expanding city of Kolkata.

It had rained the previous evening, but the ramp on the pier was surprisingly clean.The climb led us to a narrow tar road bordered on both sides with slush that was not to be confused with drain. Though there were tea or snack shacks on the bylane snaking out of the narrow tar road, its cleanliness took me by surprise.

We had entered Kumartoli, a village of artisans; that place where the clay from the river bed is transformed into Gods and Goddesses; the river side which anchors divinity; the place where images of Gods and Goddesses embark on a  journey, reaching out, like the rays of the sun, to other parts of the globe.

The narrow alleys had garage-like shop floors on either side, with no distinct gates but just tinned frames that stood away from the opening. They probably served as gates at night when art went to sleep.

We peeped into the first opening, and were delighted to see the clay models of Durga with her 10 hands after a fierce battle with Mahishasur. The models were in various stages of completion. The sheer size and the number of the idols were fascinating.

Now I will start speaking in first person: replacing we and us with I and me; as it is only fair that I spoke for myself!

The faint whiff of hot samosas and tea from a nearby snack shop did not affect me. Two gentlemen were engaged in a conversation about the type of Mahishasur idol a client had ordered. But I focussed my attention on the artisan working on goddess Durga. There were many other huge, imposing clay idols of the goddess, a face that looked calm after her slaying the demon king.

I walked on to the subsequent work floors, where the artisans had yet not begun their work, where the goddess was on her own, looking happy in her space.

I moved on and stood outside another work area. An artisan was working on an idol.

“May I come in?” I asked in Bangla, a language I find myself at home.

There was no response.

I asked again. The artisan was working on Durga’s face. He was holding on to something that looked like a sandpaper with which he was chiselling her nose. He was so engrossed creating her, he did not even hear my repeated requests.I decided to quietly go in, uninvited.

By then he had shifted his sandpaper to the breasts of the goddess and was rubbing it up and down, chiselling their shape.

I stood there in a hypnotic gaze as if I was stuck to the ground, as if I too was under his spell. At that moment, he was a sculptor, creating a voluptuous woman, with a full hip that had a few folds and a curvaceous body. Though his creation had 10 hands, probably reminding him that he was sculpting a goddess, it was still the curves and contours of the woman that seem to have enslaved him to the moment. Yes, he was creating a goddess. But she was a woman first, and that was what he created her as: a beautiful, curvy woman.

This was the artist’s space of expression; and the idol, with its curves and folds, was his realistic understanding of a woman’s body. He did not set any limits to his imagination. It was his theatre, his stage, where he was in charge of the dramatic strokes. He scripted the sequence of the  spectacle and was in command of its execution. It was as if he was in a trance during his creation, his worship of the divine feminine.

Soon, the artisan would paint the sculpture; and the transformation would begin.

I went the next day to the same work floor. The artisan had painted the goddess. She was a beautiful woman with large eyes, that must have been fierce, but was now reflecting her triumph and compassion; what a heady combination that is!

And then I witnessed the most amazing, magical moment: this was a moment of truth, of realisation.

He took a bright orange and gold garment, and slowly began draping the beautiful idol, carefully making the pleats in the front, that casually fell over the lion she stood on. Then he carefully dropped the saree over Mother Durga’s right shoulder and the let the pallu drop down gracefully till her curved bottom. He adjusted the six yards of silk slowly, covering her body, her breasts, her thighs, leaving her waist with those little folds and curves exposed.

I was stuck to the clayey ground. The curvy, voluptuous woman, was an idol. But the six yards of garment, the saree, turned her instantly into a goddess.

Durga now exuded confidence, where even a hint of vulnerability was suddenly buried under the garment; her demeanour radiating love and charm; her eyes showing affection and care.

She suddenly turned from a woman to a goddess and a mother, it looked like she was gently scolding the sculptor to stop thinking of her as just a woman with curves, but to think of her as a goddess, as a mother.

Yes, she still had the curves, she was sensuous, exuded sexuality; but she became a woman, a goddess, a diva, ready to take on the world with her beauty and courage, with her strength and wisdom.

This transformation became complete only after the sculptor draped the six yards around her.

This is not about dress codes; it is not about what women must wear. It is about women and their choices. Men might get more intimidated by women in western clothes. They also tend to take the saree-clad woman as a demure person, always seeking protection. But this vision of the goddess, who combined beauty, power and courage after being draped in the saree, was certainly a divine message to me: that the saree would express my sexuality, explore my femininity, preserve my sensuality, and at the same time exude confidence, strength and power.

Krishna consciousness

Chennai’s Carnatic music aficionados were in for a shock when the maverick musician, T.M. Krishna, decided to stay away from the December music season.His announcement in his social networking site went viral with shares and comments from fans and critics.

This most awaited annual event has global resonance, with people from all over the world converging to the sabhas (concert halls) to soak in the music and savour the sumptuous food dished out by the auditorium canteens!

But this year will be different.

Over the years, this art form with its exclusive caste and class patronage has been frustrating this controversial musician. He has been called “eccentric” by the patrons, who were essentially the educated elite Brahmins, for his on-stage “brusque” body language. 

His recent book, A Southern Music: The Karnatik Story, delves into his growing restlessness in wanting to change this caste and class dynamics. The book not only explores the historical evolution of this art form but also asks uncomfortable questions on the discordant notes of caste  hegemony over this art form.

A few years ago, he sang a different note during the December season to break the class jinx by making his performance a free-for-all. The sabha committees had no choice but to agree to the condition made by one of the biggest crowd-pullers. They decided to give him the morning slot as they could not afford to reserve the prime evening schedule, where the strains of music would ring in cash into their coffers.

Last year, Krishna organised an alternative December music season, roping in both classical and folk artists. The weeklong open air music concerts on the Chennai beachfront was a unique initiative to net the interests of fisherfolk and Dalits, and in the process break the concert walls that had been made sound-proof by the elite.

In a social networking site, Krishna recently added a dollop of dollar dynamics into the simmering caste-class Carnatic music pot. He alleged that the strength of the dollar against the rupee was causing corruption among the sabha committee members and middlemen who arrange the “meetings and concerrts”. This meant that Thyagaraja kritis emanated more from the vocal chords of NRIs, with the burgeoning local talent being sidelined.

After an uncomfortable silence from the music fraternity, soft whispers are being heard in the corridors of social networking sites. Critics point to Krishna’s “hypocrisy” in accepting fat cheques for concerts abroad while turning his nose up when dollars make an entry into the Chennai music circuit.

The musician’s decision has clearly stirred the fuzzy caste-class Carnatic broth, sometimes adding to the flavours and sometimes adding to the stink.

The Dravidian politics in Tamil Nadu has always kept the caste cauldron simmering. It came to a boil last fortnight in IIM-Madras after the authorities banned a Dalit study group, and later revoked it after protests spilled over across the country.

Today, the raga has gone off-tune.

My Appa and I

The movie, Piku raised a lot of laughter, its humour endearing audience across age groups. But I lifted the thin layer of film that coated the screen and felt the underlying happiness and melancholy in the relationship between my Appa and me.

My Appa was certainly not a copybook-style “cool dad” that we read in books and see in advertisements. Whenever my friends made glowing tributes to their fathers, I would create a tally sheet to see if any of this matched with my Appa, and failed miserably. God must have been at his creative best while assigning him the most unique human traits. He was a bundle of contradictions. He had his own way of looking at life and interacting with people.

He was generous to the point of suffocating our guests. Our home was an open house and our house guests were not just familiar relatives and friends. They comprised mutual friends, friends of friends and relatives and friends of friends of friends. Many taxis from Howrah station and Dum Dum airport have brought guests to our place for them to enjoy Appa’s almost-claustrophobic hospitality. We were the casualties in this: the constant activity at home denied us the pleasure of peaceful reading or concentrating on our quadratic equations!
He has helped a lot of people find jobs, but refused to recommend one for his brother because he hated nepotism!
When I was barely six months into my first job, he planned a summer holiday to Chennai. He was entitled to air fare for his dependent family members. But I had to take the Coromandel express train, while the rest of them availed the travel allowance. He reasoned that technically, I was earning and was, therefore, no longer a dependent. That was the level of his integrity.
He was opinionated and intolerant of dissent. I would argue, fight, sulk and sometimes mutely follow his diktat. Our relationship was anything but smooth and easy.
He was embarrassingly honest and, believe me, I have often wanted the earth to part so that I could sink into oblivion to avoid Appa’s gift of putting me in the most awkward of situations.
But he was a gem, an unpolished gem.
And then, late one night Appa slipped into coma in his sleep after an attack of cerebral haemorrhage. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be at peace, without feeling the pain of multiple needles connected to tubes going in and out of his frail, diabetic body. Normally, a minor cut was all it took for him to bring the house down. I saw him through the glass window and visualised him waking up and shouting at the medical staff for “torturing” him. “Wake up, Appa. See what they are doing to you,” I silently instigated him.
Five days passed, and he showed no sign of waking up to throw his weight around. The doctor told us he would be a vegetable even after coming out of coma because his haemorrhage had caused significant damage to his brain. That was when I wanted him to die. I could not see him helpless.
There were many who revered him, but there were also many who ridiculed him after taking advantage of his generosity.
He passed away after 13 days. The doctor told us he lost the battle and died. I told myself he has won the war. He has left for a better place. He may have been whimsical, but never boring, he may have been annoying, but never unpleasant.
Whatever he was, he was my Appa. I could say anything to him, but could not tolerate anyone saying anything against him. He left me 14 years back, but I still love my Appa.