An article many have read, I have loved.
Vir Sanghvi is the editor of The Hindustan Times.
Most modern Indian cities strive to rise above ethnicity. Tell anybody
who lives in Bombay that he lives in a Maharashtrian city and (unless of
course, you are speaking to Bal Thackeray) he will take immediate
offence. We are cosmopolitan, he will say indigenously. Tell a
Delhiwalla that his is a Punjabi city (which, in many ways, it is) and
he will respond with much self-righteous nonsense about being the
nation's capital, about the international composition of the city's
elite etc. And tell a Bangalorean that he lives in a Kannadiga city and
you'll get lots of techno-gaff about the internet revolution and about
how Bangalore is even more cosmopolitan than Bombay.
But, the only way to understand what Calcutta is about is recognize
that the city is essentially Bengali. What's more, no Bengali minds you
saying that. Rather, he is proud of the fact. Calcutta's strengths and
weaknesses mirror those of the Bengali character. It has the drawbacks:
the sudden passions, the cheerful chaos, the utter contempt for mere
commerce, the fiery response to the smallest provocation. And it has the
strengths (actually, I think of the drawbacks as strengths in their own
way). Calcutta embodies the Bengali love of culture; the triumph of
intellectualism over greed; the complete transparency of all emotions,
the disdain with which hypocrisy and insincerity are treated; the warmth
of genuine humanity; and the supremacy of emotion over all other aspects
of human existence.
That's why Calcutta is not for everyone. You want your cities clean and
green; stick to Delhi. You want your cities, rich and impersonal; go to
Bombay. You want them high-tech and full of draught beer; Bangalore's
your place. But if you want a city with a soul: come to Calcutta.
When I look back on the years I've spent in Calcutta - and I come back
so many times each year that I often feel I've never been away - I don't
remember the things that people remember about cities. When I think of
London, I think of the vast open spaces of Hyde Park. When I think of
New York, I think of the frenzy of Times Square. When I think of
Tokyo, I think of the bright lights of Shinjiku. And when I think of
Paris, I think of the Champs Elysee. But when I think of Calcutta, I
never think of any one place. I don't focus on the greenery of the
maidan, the beauty of the Victoria Memorial, the bustle of Burra Bazar
or the splendour of the new Howrah 'Bridge'. I think of people. Because,
finally, a city is more than bricks and mortars, street lights and
tarred roads. A city is the sum of its people. And who can ever forget -
or replicate - the people of Calcutta?
When I first came to live here, I was told that the city would grow on
me. What nobody told me was that the city would change my life. It was
in Calcutta that I learnt
about true warmth; about simple human decency; about love and
friendship; about emotions and caring; about truth and honesty. I learnt
other things too. Coming from Bombay as I did, it was a revelation to
live in a city where people judged each other on the things that really
mattered; where they recognized that being rich did not make you a
better person - in fact, it might have the opposite effect. I learnt
also that if life is about more than just money, it is about the things
that other cities ignore; about culture, about ideas, about art, and
about passion. In Bombay, a man with a relatively low income will salt
some of it away for the day when he gets a stock market tip. In
Calcutta, a man with exactly the same income will not know the
difference between a debenture and a dividend. But he will spend his
money on the things that matter. Each morning, he will read at least two
newspapers and develop sharply etched views on the state of the world.
Each evening, there will be fresh (ideally, fresh-water or river) fish
on his table. His children will be encouraged to learn to dance or sing.
His family will appreciate the power of poetry. And for him, religion
and culture will be in inextricably bound together.
Ah religion! Tell outsiders about the importance of Puja in Calcutta
and they'll scoff. Don't be silly, they'll say. Puja is a religious
festival. And Bengal has voted for
the CPM since 1977. How can godless Bengal be so hung up on a religions
festival? I never know how to explain them that to a Bengali, religion
consists of much more than shouting Jai Shri Ram or pulling downsomebody's mosque. It has little to do with meaningless ritual or
sinister political activity.
The essence of Puja is that all the passions of Bengal converge:
emotion, culture, the love of life, the warmth of being together, the
joy of celebration, the pride in
artistic ex-pression and yes, the cult of the goddess.
It may be about religion. But is about much more than just worship. In
which other part of India would small, not particularly well-off
localities, vie with each other to produce the best pandals? Where else
could puja pandals go beyond religion to draw inspiration from
everything else? In the years I lived in Calcutta, the pandals featured
Amitabh Bachchan, Princes Diana and even Saddam Hussain! Where else
would children cry with the sheer emotional power of Dashimi, upset that
the Goddess had left their homes? Where else would the whole city
gooseflesh when the dhakis first begin to beat their drums? Which other
Indian festival - in any part of the country - is so much about food,
about going from one roadside stall to another, following your nose as
it trails the smells of cooking?
To understand Puja, you must understand Calcutta. And to understand
Calcutta, you must understand the Bengali. It's not easy.
Certainly, you can't do it till you come and live here, till you let
Calcutta suffuse your being, invade your bloodstream and steal your
soul. But once you have, you'll love Calcutta forever. Wherever you go,
a bit of Calcutta will go with you. I know, because it's happened to me.
And every Puja, I am overcome by the magic of Bengal. It's a feeling
that'll never go away.
