Childhood Memories Contd..

Durga Poojo or the ubiquitous Poojo, happens to be an annual phenomenon yet rarely leaves most Bengali domains free, despite its autumn advent. Either because of the anticipated guests who would join the family revelry or the clothes that would require preparations much in advance or the food that needed to be prepared during and after the four days of celebrations or the beautiful idol of Ma Durga with her four children resplendent on her Bahan or the fragrance of the shiuli and sthalapadma flowers which blossomed in the season poojo has been dear to all Bengalis.

Soon after Ganesh Poojo, often in late August or early September before the fury of the Monsoons abated ,Ma would start planning for the annual ritual much before its actual advent. Being credited with her dexterous abilities to plan and manage both micro and macro amidst other things, clothes and their preparations forcefully seeped into her daily routine. Her planning helped her to finalize specific numbers, colours, and designs for the gifts and the frocks that would be a part of my wardrobe.

 As the clearer and cooler nights  sharply contrasted the  hot days with clear skies which  enticed all stored blankets and razai`s to be sundried alongside the silks and woolens in the inner  concrete veranda ,Bachu Bhai remained a messiah  for my fall collection with his silky catalogues full of enticing fantasies flaunted by skinny models. Though much frayed at the corners and pages the catalogues were a storehouse of lacy, silky temptations and catered beautifully to appease our frugal needs with consummate ease.  The design catalogue always mesmerized me as the fair brunettes and blondes in frills and sheers stared at me through their hazel, or blue eyes with an élan which was impossible to emulate. Ma would select some designs from the catalogue and make a tour to the tailor shop to ask for the required length of cloth that needed to be purchased   for the specifically selected designs. The religiously noted specifications in her characteristic writing on a neat piece of paper with her Fountain pen were treasured in a specific place in her black bag, her constant companion at work. Little did I know that she selected specific designs and cuts which desperately tried to flatter my as deeply tanned skin and bulk.

 Custom made us take a small walk to her trusted shop Anandilal Patwari &Sons ,an establishment which still stands today in its original place in the city. The walk would always be through a narrow by lane with a huge peepul tree. Interestingly a huge house built under its shadowy boughs was called Peepul Taliya House which in the local dialect meant the house under the peepul Tree. The trips which happened  between  four and six in the evening were specifically planned , which not only prevented the loss of precious time reserved for her patients but  also  allowed her to see the colours better  by the little day light  before it was engulfed by the  swiftly descending dusk. 

Numerous greetings smiles and namastes later we would arrive at our destination and be greeted by the characteristic strong smell of new rolls of cloth .At the entrance we kept our slippers neatly and the rows of colours ,texture, forms ,and print would greet us warmly . The first half of the rectangular room with two square pillars and a wall full of neatly arranged textiles segregated the similar inner half from the outer. Lined with mattresses and round pillows on the left, on which the fat owner patriarchal owner would always be deposited, his overwhelming girth invariably managing to drag every ones attention effortlessly. Always clad in a white vest with a few holes which failed miserably to even cover one third of his fat torso he always greeted us with a radiant smile which more than adequately compensated his ennui.  His equally fat son and his much slimmer brother eagerly showed wares to my mother with a matchless enthusiasm as she selected the things she wanted and thwarted any attempt for forceful or extra buying. Years of habit had tutored them to cater to her specific tastes.

She trusted the entire clan as she claimed that they had never ever sold her anything which would bleed or pale off in colour or texture in the long run. In fact she narrated instances when they asked her not to purchase some materials warning her about its faults. While the younger ones would expertly show things that the older ones often tried to engage me with stupid innuendos most of which remained a jargon. The muffled conversations were the result of the dual role of the lips which tried hard to do justice to the constant chatter and sealing the mouthful of paan which would meet its inevitable destiny after every few minutes. Many a time a lozenge would be offered to me to ward off my boredom. I was coerced to refuse it though, as my advancing hands met Ma`s disapproving glances. As Polythene bags were not much in use in the seventies the thick brown paper bags with bold imprints of the names of the store were sent back home filled with the purchases only to be labeled and kept till the gifting season arrived.

Ma`s list included friends colleagues’ servants’, house hold helps,  drivers ,peons, washer man and his faithful wife who she firmly believed in and trusted as a vital part of our lives as they made it beautiful by doing the mundane chore. I would pay very little or no attention to the numerous  dhotis some with broad borders others with narrow ones some fine shantipuris or the red bordered sari for Ma Durga or the other saris and dress materials she purchased. A staunch believer of the fact that people who helped us should be given gifts rather than ones who were only related  she even parted away with her favourites without even a blink much to my consternation a habit she practiced till she breathed her last.

If the purchases were quick she would utilize the remaining time for finalizing furnishings for curtains mattresses and pillows and metal trunks too. After probably what seemed to be an eternity she would either select something or prefer to wait for the next available opportunity where the shop keepers would promise the arrival of new fabric. Even the foot mats below the bed and the piece of cloth to be put on pillow covers while we rested our heads on them would be cast in their new avatar.

She detested dirty pillows and the still dirtier pillow covers. It was much later that she revealed that her mother had instilled the cardinal belief that clean pillows and their clean covers were one of the criteria  to finalize marriage alliances as the poor hapless objects rarely lied about the state of cleanliness practiced in the household. The fact that sparkling clean pillow covers were indicative of the goodness and eligibility for a probable bride and of good family values continues to elude my logic. My mother would mostly stick to white pillow covers generally embroidered and frilled  crocheted edgings  which would be religiously changed every Sunday before the weekly visit  of our washerman Purno or his wife Bharter Ma (Bharat`s Mother) after our afternoon siesta.

Some saris were purposely bought later, from other Shops. I grew up listening about the virtues of giving rather than receiving and I had to forcibly agree then for my joys knew no bounds on receiving and numbers never failed to impress the group of friends that I was a part of. It was only years later, that these practices made deep inroads into my psyche and then the memory of Ma`s smile reflecting the joy on the faces of those who received gifts from her vindicated that true joy of giving.

She was seldom impulsive. She always preferred to buy cotton of light colours and small prints and intelligently steered me away from dark coloured fantasies by saying that once washed they would lose their sheen. Some silks or satin would also be seen before being touched only to be finalized later. To the others she would give money to buy something for the oncoming festivities.

My average wardrobe was dominated by  pale monochromes ,  dainty flowers in blues, pale cream, and whites also had  an overpowering smell of naphthalene .With materials purchased in advance and designs chosen from attractive catalogues but rarely delivered on schedule, Bachu Bhai`s  tailoring unit formed an important part of my pooja celebrations. Often fitted and refitted for a perfect fit on many an occasion the dresses would arrive only hours before they had to be worn putting to rest the anticipation that preceded the delivery. Often adorned in the  collars and cuffs with delicate edgings painstakingly crafted after dinner in the thinnest of the reel threads instead of the thick crochet threads my outfits would be transformed into the extraordinary because of her artistic abilities. I still treasure a few of her beautiful creations which stand mute testimony of her creative genius. She had even tutored Noni our trusted maid to dry laces on old newspapers after being washed taking care not to rub them vigorously.

It never mattered to most citizens of the tiny city that patterns, furnishings, or coverlets wouldn't vary in colour texture fabric unflinching of the commonality of their origin .It would be rather fun and never a matter of concern that I wore the same prints with Runu and Munmun two of my closest allies and friends which probably more than asserted the common threads of love and care that bonded the Bengali community and assumed an important part of my life.