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.