Of Princes, Singing Saints and Gully Cricket

If not in its entirety, yet a significant period of my childhood was spent in the north-eastern fringes of Kolkata. The name of the city immediately brought in memories of the Calcutta I had grown up with .. quite different from the Kolkata of today. The sounds of tram bells .. commotion on the roads caused by daily commuters .. hand-pulled rickshaws carrying babus back from work .. a group of protesters shouting slogans of 'Cholche na .. Cholbe na' on the streets .. rhythimically raising their fists against some invisible enemies with such conviction as if they would immediately crush the black hands of the tyrant, the moment they materialized before them. The traffic sergeants standing haplessly .. surrounded by buses .. trams .. taxis; like small floating islands amidst a sea of people and vehicles - the smell of black diesel in the air burning the nostrils.. as pedlars modulated their voices to lure customers into selling salted groundnuts and jelly lozenges inside crowded buses and trams.

How many times had I taken the bus on route no. 44 from Howrah station in my childhood, starting all the way from Kharagpur on train and alighted at the Phulbagan stop? Two hundred times..four hundred. Maybe it was more. I had stopped counting. Come summer holidays and we'd visit Calcutta.. Come Durga Puja and we'd come to Calcutta. I'd visit the place during Dol, Rathyatra, Christmas; not to mention the other times when I'd be taken there for no obvious reasons, like crying the hell out of myself when my granny returned back from Kharagpur, leaving her with no other choice but to carry me with her. But those were the lost days of my childhood, of princes and fairies.. like the sweet dreams of dawn.

As I crossed the busy V.I.P road, always bustling with traffic, and negotiated the narrow footpath through the crowd of hawkers squatting on the ground displaying their wares in front of the shops .. with renewed stamina (drained miserably from the exertive bus journey following the train), I felt a unique sense of freedom, a happiness I never felt at Kharagpur. Soon the crowd thinned and I could hear my footsteps on the still pavement and my heart beating in my mouth; now that I crossed the lane beside the supermarket…three more crossings to go after which I'd reach the Gurudas Park which looked across the Kali temple and then find Suren Sarkar road winding into the left, leading towards my destination. As I passed by 'Satyanarayan' fast-food shop, the strong aroma of fried devils tortured my nostrils and reminded me of the many times I had waited patiently in long queues with my Choto mashi (youngest aunt) in front of the shop; yearning for a piece or two of the unique concoction of meat and egg from which she found it difficult to distract me.

The letters of 'Das Medico' glowed unmistakably from the board of the next shop as I reflected upon the innumerable times I had accompanied my grandfather here for buying medicines. Now I passed Krishna's house (a friend of my aunts who played the tabla well in spite of being a woman) and I could hear her striking a beat. Whenever Krishna paid a visit, the family would gather for a musical soiree. My mejomashi (the aunt older to the youngest one) would sing Rabindrasangeet accompanying the harmonium as Krishna played tabla.

There was no TV in the house and every member of the family looked up to the event, not just for the music but also for the hot fritters which went along with puffed rice stirred in mustard oil, chopped onions and green chillies; all served in a big bowl everybody dug their hands into. Here came the lone petrol pump with always a truck parked beside it; which meant the 'Mondol Tailors' shop was just seconds away. I had got my first pair of shirt and trousers sewn at the shop; the cream coloured shirt piece and the chocolate coloured pants being the first pair of clothes which set me free from my days of shorts and welcomed the macho, full-pants look of a bhadralok (gentleman) in my life. As I turned into the narrow alley beside 'Mondol Tailors' I was met with the putrid smell of clogged drains and the sight of naked children running hither and thither, amused by the shouts and snarls let out by the older boys playing gully cricket. I would smile in my mind knowing I had reached my place.

My maternal grandparents stayed there with three of my mashis (my mother's sisters). The house was three storied; a big house but an old one. The owners were three brothers who had altogether seven sons and three daughters. The five sons were married and stayed with their children in the second storey, while the ground floor was let-out to three tenants, one of them being my grandparents. With so many people living together, commotion was a commonplace.

Throughout the day the landlord's children played with peculiar kinds of balls made out by tying plastic packets with rubber bands. This was the only place I found such balls to exist .. never have I seen children playing with those stuff anywhere in my life so far. Even to this day I wonder why they couldn't have football or cambis balls to play with. Their families owning a big retail shop selling wheat, rice, stationeries and a variety of other goods .. quite popular in the market ; the question of their inability to afford them did not arise. It was no surmise that all tenants' monthly rations used to come from there. Every now and then the balls would fly inside the room and my youngest aunt would refuse to return them back to their owners. An altercation would ensue as a result everyday .. sometimes things would roll out to their extremes .. my disgruntled aunt would shout at them .. calling them names .. In one such instance I remember her to say 'Poor .. wretched ones .. like you so your playthings .. can't even get decent balls to play with .. why don't you go out and play ? A passerby may take pity on you street urchins and buy you a ball ' Somehow their comparison with the balls would pacify them .. perhaps it took a toll on their pride .. for the following day or two the boys would desist from playing their silly games. But the respite would be only for those few days . Tired of the regular brawls .. one day Dadu (my maternal grandfather) got a wooden partition built in the verandah. Now the boys were only too glad to have found their stumps and the poor door had to bear the brunt of it all. Many a times the bat would miss the ball and strike the wickets instead .. followed by 'Out's that' and screams challenging the decision.

My mornings started at Kolkata with the boshtumi (a singing saint of Bengal) belting out 'Rai Jago, Rai jago ebar', a kirtan number (devotional songs sung in praise of Radha-Krishna) in his coarse, lilting voice. At that age though I could hardly comprehend the meaning of the lyrics, yet the melody of the song used to awaken me from my sleep, just like the prince of the fairy tales my granny used to narrate every night. .. except that the king had courtesans residing in the palace for the purpose. 'Well, you're just like the prince, my boy, but how will you become strong like him and fight off the demons .. if you don't eat enough', my granny would say, as she squatted on the floor with a plate of hand-made balls of rice dipped in dal.. mixed with mashed vegetables; cajoling me into letting the morsels pass down my throat.

I had once chanced upon to catch a glimpse of the man, clad in saffron waist coat and a white dhoti; a U symbol drawn in wet sandalwood over his forehead extending till the middle of his nose; a rudrakhsh garland adorning his neck. He had long oiled hairs tied in a bun on the top .. held an ektara, (a single stringed musical instrument) in his left hand which he strummed as he sang; his right hand held the can for receiving alms. He sang keeping his eyes closed. He had offered to take me to his home at Nadia where they lived in the fields, slept on trees. It had amazed me at that age. 'Don't you have a house?' I asked the man one day.. removing all inhibitions. 'No, we are not entitled to lead the life of a grihastha (a householder) , he had replied with a smile.

When I had grown up I had learnt that Bauls are a group of mystic minstrels from the Bengal region of South Asia, which included Bangladesh and the Indian states of West Bengal, Tripura and Assam's Barak Valley. They constituted both a syncretic religious sect and a musical tradition. They are a very heterogeneous group, with many sects, but their membership mainly consisted of Vaishnava Hindus and Sufi Muslims ..

As the first morning sunlight streamed into my eyes through the louvers of the windows and the sound of wheel barrows treading garbage from the colony houses got me up on my bed; I immediately knew the chain of events that were to follow. Soon the old man vending newspapers in the colony would spot me at the window and recognizing me amongst the fifty odd households would smile unmistakably. 'Came for summer holidays khokababu, did you?, he'd ask handing me the newspaper. It was an unsaid agreement between us that he'd bring me comics and other childrens magazines for reading during the time I stayed at my mashibari. He eagerly lent me the books without charging any money. I had learnt that the man had a grandson of my age at his village in Muzaffarpur, Bihar whom he missed very much. What pains a man had to endure at such an age, I think now as I reflect upon the incidents. Staying away from his family for weeks, months and years; visiting them occasionally during festivals. I found it hard to accept the fact that a man could indeed stay away from his family, his native place, and fellow men and journey thousands of kilometres to an alien place for the sake of earning a living. Little did I know at that time that the same fate awaited me when I grew up.

Sometime later in my life I couldn't fail to recognize the tune of a song in a bengali film and as I did my mind got transferred to the old days at my Mashi baari.

"Shukh* pleads to Shari* to awaken from sleep fast .. Once the time has passed .. it could never be brought back "

This time I understood the lyrics well .. the deeper meaning of the word 'awaken'.

I'd visited many Palli geeti (country folk songs) functions in my life .. watched many singing saints performing .. setting the stage on fire by juggling with the highest notes of the octave .. a feat only their breed of singers could achieve. This genre of music intrinsic to bengal had a scent of the rural soil mixed in it .. an appeal different from other forms of rock music . As I watched these people intently .. so different from us in their looks and livelihood, with awe .. I loved to indulge in the tomfoolery of searching for my childhood 'boshtumi' amongst the long-haired .. saffron-clad men with their 'ektaaras' .. knowing well that like the princes and fairies of my grandmother's tales .. the eatery .. chemist shop.. tailoring shop .. the dirty bylane .. a group of children playing gully cricket with hand-made balls .. he too was lost from my world forever .. the moment I had grown up.

* Sukh-Shari (literally translated as 'Happiness-Song'), are an imaginary pair of birds who appear in Rupkatha (Bangla fairy tales) at random. They have the capability to speak like humans. Sukh is the male bird and Shari is the female bird. They are wise and well-informed about the story's secrets. They usually sing about good deeds of people, answer questions in riddles and usually converse in rhyme

Picture Courtesy: Bengali Baul painting by Ganesh Pyne

Information about Bauls and the legend of 'Sukh-Sari' taken from Wikipedia

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