Pujo Blues

As I was driving back home from work today, I could hear drumming in the background of the Blue Lady's engine's usual humming. It took a moment to sink in that these were dhaak (traditional Pujo drum) sounds. Maybe it was this post by GreatBong that I had read earlier in the day that shoved my mind into the bright corridors of nostalgia. I pulled up to the makeshift pandal and relived my secret fantasy of referring to a stranger as 'Dada' with the excuse of asking about the Pujo in my probashi Bangla.

I rushed back after a quick shower, going for the semi-Bangla look of Kurti and Jeans. I felt I should hold back my total Bangla look of Pajama-Punjabi for Sunday since the average working class Bangalee may not have been ready for it, just like Zoolander's Magnum. The idols weren't bad with the colorful watery background and fake flame. I was admiring them silently when an obviously non-Bengali gentleman surprised me from behind with 'Do you know why they have dressed up that object like a woman's figure in a white saree with a red border?' I did not. So, told him the first creative believable thing that I could think of and moved away to admire the little stalls trying to emote the hullabaloo of Calcutta pandals.

The food was a huge let down. I had come expecting delights such as telebhaja, beguni and piyanji. What I found was a Sardarji serving what has come to define Indian food in this country, and I imagine all others except the motherland - your generic naan and some vegetarian sabzi. Where was the Phees Phry? Crestfallen, I was searching for solace in the faces of the Devis roaming around me. However, only a couple of them matched my definition of a Devi (which included wearing a flamboyant saree this evening), which I grant is very stringent off late since the Sharmila of Amar Prem and Chupke Chupke has been bothering me in my dreams.

Jhaal Muri seemed the closest thing to the culture since the guy selling CD's and DVD's did not have my request of Kishore's Rabindrasangeet (there were a lot of Anandamelas and other Bengali magazines, but I am not into them. I heard a gentleman joking with the seller that he would only pay the quoted price in Calcutta). The snack was very authentic and stung my nose like those countless jhal muris eaten on train journeys back home. Just as the sleepy voice on the jukebox was beginning to annoy me, an announcement was made that the evening would conclude with dhaak playing. Just like earlier, the quality was very good, but what surprised me was the main dhaak player. He was an ABCD (well not apparently C) teenager. The performance was so good that I found myself aspiring to do a dhunuchi dance to the beat. So, the evening was about to end on a good note, when I realized I was the only one there standing alone in a corner and not participating in adda with the average short, round, dark, bespectacled member of the crowd with shiny hair and that my only interaction with them had been to click photographs of couples with alien cameras while making sure the idols were "visible in the background", before disappearing into the night.