It was the end of October, a few
days after Durga Pujo. The Pandals
all stood empty- bare, barren. Ma Durga had been immersed in the Ganges. Only
the bamboo structures remained. Perhaps the organizers had Kali Pujo in mind
which was round the corner. There was a feeling of hollowness, of emptiness
everywhere. At times in the forlorn lanes, which only a few days back had been
teeming with people as they jostled their way to get a look of the Mother
Goddess, the criss-cross of the bamboos looked grotesque. The city seemed
desolate, almost lifeless , one reason being, I surmised, that many leave the
city soon after the festivities get over, in search of something new .
I was coming to Kolkata, once my home, after
more than seven years. My mother’s ashes had been collected and immersed by me,
just a little over a month. I could identify with the mood only too well.
The Homecoming
Every time I came to Kolkata
earlier (though I still prefer Calcutta), it was to visit my mother. I remember
her standing at the door of our house as I walked in through the gate with my bags
and my little one in tow. This is where I came every summer and winter, the
only difference being that it would be for two weeks in summer against only a
week in winter. Our vacations were always spent here until a few years back
when her health failed and she came to live with us. From the clothes that we
would change into, to the towels in the stand and the slippers to be worn indoors,
everything would be in place. Not to mention my favourite dishes all spread out
in the next few days along with the grandchild’s favourite chutneys and sweets.
Even if I did not open my suitcase for the a few days, nothing would go amiss. The toothbrushes and night suits would also
be kept ready for us. That was my mother- painstaking, caring, immaculate.
Every time we left she would wipe away her tears and wait patiently for our
next visit. This was the first time I was coming to Kolkata when I had nowhere
to go to.
I was apprehensive about how I
would go about doing the rounds of the Banks and LIC offices, a routine which
invariably follows in the aftermath of the death of a family member. I was not
really looking forward to any of it but had to go about it. During the next four
–five days that I spent in this city I was deeply touched by the warmth and hospitality
shown by friends and family, many of whom I had not even been in touch with for
quite some time. An aunt and uncle completely took me by surprise by arranging
for lunch on both the days I visited the bank near their house. I was truly
overwhelmed by their sensitivity for they had carefully chosen and prepared
things in a way my mother would cook for me. Dishes like thor chhenchki, mochar ghonto,
chochori, shukto, shak bhaja and
the tiny mourala machh bhaja were on
their way out and with the passing away of the last remnants of our earlier
generation these recipes would belong to the annals of culinary history. The
day we were leaving the city, a cousin packed huge amounts of sweets for us, despite
our vigorous protests, insisting that we can never get such stuff in Mumbai. In
a way it is true. Only this city can churn out sweetmeats and saris in such
varieties and at such prices which are unthinkable elsewhere.
Since there was not much time in hand,
one early morning we decided to go to the Dakshineshwar Kali Temple. Two
reasons went behind this-my husband had never been there and it was also a
place my mother liked going to. Though the new Skywalk was all eager to have us
set foot on it, we were not allowed to by the authorities since Mamata Didi was
yet to inaugurate it. This temple, on the banks of the Hooghly, dedicated to Ma
Kali or Bhavatarini, was built by Rani Rashmoni . This is where the priest
Gadadhar Chattopadhyay worshipped Mother Kali with all the innocence and
adulation of a child. Gadadhar came to be known later by the name of Paramhansa
Sri Ramakrishna. You can see the room he lived in for thirty years, the cluster
of trees called Panchavati where he practiced Vedanta sadhana and attained samadhi,
the tiny room which was his wife Ma Sarada’s abode. It was at this very temple
that some of the greatest men of his time came to visit him. To even think that this
place was once frequented by the likes of Keshav Chandra Sen, Girish Ghosh and Vidyasagar.
There is a peace and serenity here that is unusual in most Hindu temples.
Across the river is the Belur Math, the headquarters of the Ramakrishna Math
and Mission, started by his favourite disciple, Narendranath Datta or more
popularly known as Swami Vivekananda. The bathing ghats where Ramakrishna had
met his spiritual gurus Tota Puri and Bharavi Brahmani still stand.
Calcutta-Kolkata/ West Bengal-Bangla-
or whatever they may decide to re-christen her next- will always be my home, a
place close to my heart. ..my safe haven. After an interlude of seven years, the city looked
smarter, cleaner and spunkier to me with all its flyovers, malls, ever
increasing high rises, fancy streetlights, chic restaurants, broader and better
roads, but as many old timers pointed out the city was but a shadow of its
former glory, a bare bamboo structure devoid of its much acclaimed
accomplishments. Another thing that stood out like eyesores to me were the huge
cutouts of Didi, posing in every nook
and corner, which in other states may be very common, but not a familiar one to
the Calcuttans of yore.
On the last evening, as I walked
into Park Street in search of the mouthwatering Hot Kathi Rolls and the much
loved Chelo Kebab of Peter Cat , the bright, decorative, festive lights of
Durga Puja, which during the day looked like hideous skeletal remains from the
past, the LED bulbs forming eerie shapes, both human and floral, against wooden
frames, glowed in all their colourful hues. The city was once again gearing up
for the Festival of Lights. The mood was definitely changing.
On our way back, in the narrow lanes of Kalighat,
the bare, naked idols of the Goddess Kali, were getting their first coat of paint.
In the next few days these unknown artists would bring to life this long line
of clay and hay idols with their master strokes, only to have them immersed at
the end of the festivity.
The countdown had begun.
Echoes from the Past
I needed to move on.
I missed my daughter and a much
desired change from the familiar scenes and chores took me to her in Hyderabad.
While we are busy wiping out,
whitewashing and re-calligraphing names, the voiceless stones have interesting
tales to narrate. From the broken ramparts of the Shepherd’s Hill (Golla-konda)
or Round Hill (Gol-konda) you get the best view of the city of Hyderabad, built
by Muhammad Quli Qutb Shah, on the banks of the river Musi. Golkonda was built
as a small mud fort on a granite hill under the Kakatiyas but it was rebuilt and
expanded as a proper formidable fort over a period of sixty two years under the
Qutb Shahi rulers. Here you hear the tales of secret passageways and
underground tunnels. Our guide tells us that in the times of the Qutb Shahi
rulers an underground passage led the Baadshahs and Begums to the Charminar and the Laad Bazar ,
famous for its bangles. When a king died he would be secretly taken and laid to
rest at the Qutb Shahi tombs through an underground route. The enemies would
never get to know about the passing of a King. Tunnels and secret passages
connected the main gate to the highest point in the citadel.
About the city of Hyderabad, the
legend says that the Baadshah fell in love with a courtesan Bhagmati. So deeply
was he in love that he named the new capital of his empire after her. It got
the name of Bhagnagar or Bhagyanagar . Later, the lady love converted to Islam
and she was given the name of Hayder Mahal or Hyder Bibi. The city was renamed
as Hyderabad. There are other references about the origin of the name, one
being that of Baghnagar (City of Gardens) and another that it was named Bagh
Nagar( City of the Lion) after Caliph Ali Ibn Abi Talib, nicknamed Hayder or Lion for his acts of bravery. I personally
prefer the romantic tale and if Hyderabad becomes Bhagyanagar probably the
nautch girl can still have the last laugh.
The eight Sultans of the Qutb
Shahi dynasty ruled their empire from Golkonda, a 5km circular granite fort
with an outer wall having a 7km circumference, till they shifted their base to
a new city called Hyderabad to solve their water shortage problems. The Fort is
an exquisite engineering and architectural marvel with excellent acoustics,
reservoirs and plumbing lines that allowed for great ventilation, hot baths for
the Begums and an unbelievable surveillance-cum-communication system. The Fort
was invincible till a betrayal by an insider led to the gates being opened to
the Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb who had been laying siege around this impregnable
citadel for months.
When the Mughal Empire was
collapsing, their viceroy to the Deccan Suba declared his independence and a
new dynasty of the Nizams of Hyderabad came to rule the city. It was under the
Qutb Shahi dynasty and the Nizams that the name and fame of Hyderabad spread
far and wide. It was known for its riches and splendor to the western world.
The neighbouring Kollur mines of Golkanda were famous for their diamonds and
emeralds. Its vaults once contained the priceless Koh-i-noor, Hope and Daria-i-Noor
diamonds which are now part of Britain and Iran’s Crown Jewels.
Every stone in every monument and
every artefact housed in the city’s museums breathes history.
It is up to us to ignore or
acknowledge.
In Memoriam
History cannot be erased or wiped
out. It is very much an integral part of who we are and what we have. The
chapters can be taken out of the syllabus, some parts of it can be
intentionally omitted, roads and stations can be renamed but essentially it
remains in our culture, art and people. It can be buried for centuries under
the sands of time, invisible to many, only to resurface in full grandeur.
My next halt was at Patan, a town
about 125 km from Ahmedabad. An impromptu trip to this little known town
unraveled a little known wonder.
The Archaelogical Survey of India
, after decades of excavation since 1958, has recently unearthed the Rani Ki Vav, a subterranean seven storeyed stepwell built in the 11th Century AD by Queen
Udayamati in memory of her husband King Bhimadeva
I of the Solanki dynasty . We have heard of monuments being erected in the
memory of Queens or mistresses but this was a memorial to a husband. Interestingly,
the image of this architectural masterpiece appears on one side of the new
hundred rupee note released by RBI.
The stepwell, 64m long 24m wide
and 27m deep, had been buried for nearly a thousand years due to flooding of
the river Saraswati, which has also long since disappeared. In 2014 it acquired
the tag of a World Heritage site from UNESCO. ASI archaeologists have painstakingly
unearthed and discovered this thousand year old stepwell through careful
excavation, de-silting and restoration work.
The entire structure is made of sandstone with exquisite carvings and
sculptures of the Hindu pantheon of Gods and Goddesses- Indra, Brahma, Vishnu,
Shiva , their consorts, the Dasavatars, Laxmi, Parvati, Ganesha, Kartik, Kuber- along
with demons and Rishis, Apsaras and Vishkanyas. Stepped corridors lead through
pillared pavilions or terraces to the underground reservoir. Rainwater still
collects in this well or vav and you
can actually see it. The descent into the vav
is a journey to another ethereal world beyond the ordinary. It can truly be
assigned the title of Queen of Stepwells.
Before leaving Patan we had to
see another of its wonder- the double Ikat
handloom silk sari called Patola. It is a dying art today. Kumarapal, the ruler
of Patan, needed to wear a new vastra for
his Puja every day. In order to ensure that every dhoti was freshly woven he
relocated 700 hundred families of weavers with the common family name of Salvi
from Maharashtra to Patan. After 900 years only one of the 700 Salvi families
is still in this trade. Rohitbhai Kantilal Salvi and Bharatbhai Kantilal Salvi
along with their nephew Rahul, son of Shilpaguru Vinayakbhai Kantilal Salvi ,
their eldest brother, have still held on to this family trade. A double Ikat sari costs anything between Rs. 1.5
lakhs to Rs. 20 lakhs and a double Ikat
handkerchief can cost a whopping 15K!! The Salvis still use natural dyes unlike
other Patola weavers and a sari takes anywhere between four to six months to be
hand woven. When you compare the geometric patterns and animal motifs on the
saris with the carvings and sculptures on the temples and vavs in the area, you realize where the weavers get their
inspiration from.
There was no question of
returning empty handed after seeing the weaving process. So, finally, I settled
for its paler cousin, the more popular single Ikat weave sari which, though more reasonably priced, is not
regarded by the Salvis as their patented traditional Patola . A thousand year
old craft is on the verge of becoming extinct as other Salvi members have moved
on to newer and more lucrative professions. The art might be dying but it
remains very much a part of the history of Patan, once the capital of Gujarat,
and ruled by the Chavdas and Solankis.
 |
| Master Craftsmen Rohit & Bharat Bhai with Double Ikat Loom |
Now back home, I am happy to have
a little bit of history as part of my wardrobe!
DS
