Puja without Durga

An SUV is not exactly a very common sight in the village so within minutes of arriving,a crowd gathers around the vehicle. It’s four in the afternoon so the sun is already on its westward journey. This village is practically in the middle of nowhere and a friend has inherited land here and so we have come to inspect.

There is no electricity though it is hardly some 20 kilometers from Bagdogra, the nearest airport and the tourist gateway to the Himalayas in West Bengal. An irrigation canal flows by though from the looks of things around, agriculture isn’t exactly prospering.

A lanky man in his 30s, caretaker of the purchased land, shows us around. The group of curious onlookers follows. There are mostly children amongst them. All the while I am rather uncomfortably aware of a stark difference. It is Durga Puja, the biggest Bengali festival, when gifting new clothes is a custom and these kids barely have any on them.

An old woman comes out from one of the mud thatched houses and offers us lunch to which we politely decline. She insists that we have tea and arranges for it. She has no furniture save one wooden chair so she brings out her cot for us to sit on it. She is a widow and lives with her daughter in-law, who is a widow as well. The two women barely earn their living from weaving baskets. They have practically nothing and hardly know us, yet they offer us genuine hospitality - something rarely found even in the big hotels of a city.

The children are still gathered around us. As the sun begins to set and sounds of the dhak come from a far off Puja Pandal, a sudden brilliance catches my eye. Peeping from behind the fields and the trees are the majestic Himalayas and the snow capped peak of Mount Kanchendzonga shining a dazzling gold.

It is almost surreal that this seemingly nondescript village witnesses such beauty every day. I begin to think that there should actually be a resort here. The villagers could have better and more ways of earning. It could be fantastic getaway in the foothills of the Himalayas. People could walk, cycle or simply hang around and watch the sun set over the third highest peak in the world. But how naïve of me, where is the infrastructure? The road is not motorable and there is no electricity. In fact there may be so many more villages with a similar view around. So is this place destined to remain like this forever?

As the time to leave arrives and the small pairs of eyes continue to follow our every movement, I feel a distinct urge to give the children something. It is Durga Puja, it may not make the slightest difference in their lives but I feel the need to keep alive the tradition of gifting. I desperately rummage my bag for toffees, peppermints, biscuits, anything......and there is nothing. I try to look around for a shop and there is none.

With a strange guilt in my heart I take leave of a village in the foothills of North Bengal, that I will remember for a while to come.

The Window

The taxi stops at an underground parking sign that says “Livraison”. Except that this is not really underground. I am very much on the ground but surrounded by concrete walls and ceiling that give the impression of being underground. I take the elevator and emerge on top of the “Esplanade” and it is almost like a mini Manhattan. There’s glass and steel towers all around us and some of them are actually bad to the point of being ugly. How is this place even a tourist attraction I begin to wonder.


This is the new office district of the City. At the western end of the Line 1 on the Metro, La defense is like an island of commercial space surrounded by suburbia. The traffic and the cars continue to navigate the roads below this huge concrete artificial base as computers, faxes and coffee vending machines whirr and whiz away in office buildings on top. I’m tempted to call it The Hanging Offices of La Defense.



Bizarre works of art, modern sculpture and the odd patches of green and fountains intersperse this attempt at redefining an otherwise flat skyline of the City.
I keep walking towards the main attraction, the Grande Arche, which is right at the end of this rather unique commercial space. Everything from the shopping mall to the small chapel has a modern architectural bent to it and all along the Esplanade seems to be rising in steps culminating in its main tourist draw.




The Grande Arche is like a rectangular frame with external elevators taking visitors to the top for a view. A closer look reveals that it is not just an “arch”; there are actually offices inside it. I climb the steps, expecting a view and am disappointed by the graveyard and the speeding traffic and miles of suburbs spreading away into the horizon.


And then when I turn back I see it – the City. I see the top of the most visited monument in the world, the Eiffel, rising almost like black lace into the sky. Directly in front, almost in line with the Grand Arche I see its grander and older counterpart, the Arc De Triomphe. I see the lines of the Metro crossing the Seine and I see the gray slate roofs and the black wrought iron balconies of the houses lining the broad boulevards of that city, familiar to many around the globe.


Every city has a spot that is away from it and yet near enough to see it from. It’s like seeing things in perspective. Grand Arche, La Defense is that window to Paris. And this window does indeed showcase a very beautiful city.

Tales of a City

A couple of hundred kilometers to the north of the capital of West Bengal lies a city, which a few centuries back, was the capital of the then province of Bengal. Being one of the first cities to fall to the British, this city has its own significant share of historical monuments and relics. The Hazar Duari (Palace with a 1000 doors), tombs of the ruling Nawabs, mosques, temples, mansions, armoury, paintings and objets d’dart attract quite a number of tourists to this medieval city of Murshidabad. What captures the imagination however is the folklore surrounding the city and its rulers.

On a visit to the city once, on a comfortable autumn day, we were greeted by a guide who seemed to materialize out of thin air as soon as we stepped out of the car. Tall and wiry with a sallow complexion, the man introduced himself as Ashraf and having an “MA in History”, as if the degree qualified him to be a better guide. It was difficult to guess Ashraf’s age – his weathered face made him seem almost as ancient as the city of Murshidabad. As soon as he had introduced himself a young boy appeared, stating that he would charge less to take us to rarely seen places. We told him that Ashraf had already been appointed; he continued to hang around though.
For the rest of the guided tour this odd couple regaled us with stories of Murshidabad in their own unique style.
Murshid Quli Khan, the founder of Murshidabad was known to be notorious in the matter of tax collection. On one occasion revenue from Bengal’s coffers sent to the Mughal Emperor in Delhi, had amounted to a guinea less. In order to rectify this Murshid Quli Khan sent the Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb, a unique offering – the head of the taxman bearing the erroneous revenue on the last occasion, with a gold coin stuck to his forehead, set on a platter!
Then there was the story of one of Murshid Quli Khan’s daughters (an argument broke out here between Ashraf and his younger colleague on the number of daughters that Murshid Quli Khan had). Apparently she was a witch of sorts and devoured men’s hearts (what they probably meant was today’s version of the “man eating” woman). Every day a man had to be brought to satisfy the Begum’s thirst for human blood. Once when the Nawab had had enough he got his men to dig a grave for his daughter and fooled her into lying inside it for the purpose of measurements and then buried her alive.
Incredulity notwithstanding, the story that is most stirring is that of the last Nawab, Siraj du Daulah’s. On the occasion of India’s independence his grave apparently cracked up and spurted blood in a sign indicating that his soul was at last at peace over Mir Jafar’s betrayal at the Battle of Plassey in 1757, resulting in the beginning of the takeover of Indian territory by the British.
At the end of the day, after being remunerated Ashraf disappeared almost as quickly as he had arrived and we prepared to departs.
With time even the most impressive sights of Murshidabad gradually faded from memory but Ashraf’s stories continued to conjure a thousand images, adding to the mystery and magic of Murshidabad.

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From a River's Point of View

Kolkata is not for the regular tourist! From the long queues at the immigration desk of the airport, to the noisy diesel spewing Ambassador taxis, (archaic yet spacious) to the potholed roads, to the heat and humidity, the city at first sight, is anything but attractive. And though you may have heard reams about its warmth and its people’s love for culture, its first impressions rarely leave you wanting more.

But I believe if one really wants to know a city then you have to get off the beaten track. I like to think of this quaint hometown of mine like a moody woman…if you want to know her you will have to let her have it her way…let her show you around…..not on those ubiquitous yellow taxis but by getting on a boat, on the river that flows by her, the Ganges or the Hugli, as it is referred to locally.

No Indian metropolis has a river this large flowing by it and that is where Kolkata is unique and that is from where she seems most beautiful. A cruise down this river affords views of the beautiful Dakshineswar and Belur temples in the north, one of the largest railways stations in India at Howrah, the old and graceful cantilever Howrah Bridge, the second largest cricket stadium of the world, Eden gardens, and the 200 years old Botanical Gardens to name but a few of the sights. One could simply continue south and also see the largest delta of the world, the Sunderbans (home to the gorgeous Royal Bengal Tiger) but that would be a weekend expedition in itself.

The largest river of India meanders lazily through Kolkata and under its bridges, reflecting the pace of the city. This cruise could be beautiful any time of the day, any day of the year.

The sad part is that there are no organized or guided tour boats for visitors to the city. You would have to just hop on to one of those small individual wooden boats and ask the Majhi to row you downstream or indulge in the brief version by taking a passenger ferry across. Like the rest of the state, tourism seems to be languishing and is low on the list of priorities of the city’s administrators and private investors. Ironic given that tourism is set to be the largest industry worldwide!