The nineteenth century Durga Puja: Babus, hookahs, and nautchgirls

Editor’s Note: Hootum Pyanchar Naksha (Sketches by Hootum the Owl), a set of bawdy, irreverent satirical writings about 19th century life in Bengal, has never been out of print since it was first published in 1862. Kaliprasanna Sinha, the author, had a real sense of the city, its babus and fishwives, its nautches and gossip. Swarup Roy has done the first ever translation of those sketches, published by Black Kite press as The Observant Owl. Here’s an excerpt giving us an owl’s-eye view of the bedlam of Durga Puja in Bengal in the glory days of the babus of Kolkata. [caption id=“attachment_97441” align=“alignleft” width=“380” caption=“Durga puja used to be celebrated only in the houses of the rich. Nowadays, it is celebrated by all. “] [/caption] Durga puja is a festival of Bengal; nobody in the northwestern provinces has ever heard about it. It was probably from the time of Raja Krishnachandra that Durga puja became popular in Bengal. Earlier, Durga puja used to be celebrated only in the houses of rajas and rich people. But nowadays, even two-bit oil-pressers can be seen carrying home an idol of Durga for worship! … Readers, a few educated Young Bengals in the city have taken to idol worship nowadays! Instead of feeding brahmins during the pujas, they toast their cronies! Chummy female friends are also invited to the gathering. Even Durga Puja has been refined to some extent. In other Hindu houses, the priest claims the cash offerings made to the goddess by the visitors; here the money is deposited in the bank account of the babu! Candles made of tallow are lit before the idol, and worshippers are allowed to walk on the puja mandap with their shoes on! The goddess is decorated with articles ordered from England; she now wears a bonnet instead of a crown, and as bhog she’s offered sandwiches! The Navapatrikas (or nine branches used during the worship of the Goddess) don’t take a dip in the Ganga any more; hot water is poured on them from kettles! The blessed water is then used for preparing tea and coffee during breakfast! …Readers, our babu hails from a rich, aristocratic family. He has a distinct, individual style. The babu ensconced himself regally on a cushion in the corridor with his hangers-on after the aarti; he was tricked out in a fine silk dhoti. The liveried darwans drew their swords and stood guard over him. Hurcarras, hookah-bearers, and lackeys stood in front of him with folded hands to do his bidding. The babu was surrounded by an array of gem-studded hookahs; he took a drag on them randomly like a stray dog nibbling at leftovers, and looked sidelong at the crowd to see which hookah was being admired! The display was principally aimed at impressing upon the people the quantities of valuable objects in the babu’s house. Had there been more space on the floor, the babu would have displayed some more hookahs! Gradually, invited and uninvited guests began to throng into the house in their hundreds. The mandap was soon crawling with people. Even the presence of the sword-wielding darwans couldn’t deter the shoe-lifters from walking off with two basketfuls of shoes! Many invitees kept an eye on their shoes like turtles while chatting with the babu! Turtles keep an eye on their eggs on the shore while swimming in the sea. But then, just as baby turtles disappear after hatching out of their eggs, the guests found their shoes missing while leaving! Only a few pairs of worn-out shoes lay on the ground, like broken eggshells! Suddenly, the nine o’ clock guns fired. Little boys shouted, “Byomkali Kulkuttawalli” at the top of their voices! There’d be a nautch in the house soon, so the babu hurried into the sitting room to change. All the gas lamps on the courtyard were lit, and arrangements began to be made for the majlis. The babu’s nephews lounged around in tasselled topis and girdles. The fun-loving invitees began to turn up one by one. The baiji was shown in. The babu trotted in like an Egyptian mummy, shrouded in zari and jewels from head to foot! The baiji sang to the accompaniment of the sarangi and enthralled everyone. [caption id=“attachment_97444” align=“alignright” width=“380” caption=“An artisan putting finishing touches to an idol of Goddess Durga.”] [/caption] Allow the invitees enjoy the nautch, let the babu continue to chatter and brag under the influence. Readers, let’s take a look at the city in the meanwhile. Merrymaking was going on in almost every house. Crowds of people were thronging the puja houses to have a darshan of the goddess. The roads were chock-a-block with Marwaris, whores, and rakes. The syces were cracking their whips in the air; it was really difficult to drive through the streets that day. Kobigan was being sung somewhere. The goddess of sleep had fled the place on hearing the sound of dhaks and the howls of the singers! Babies curled up in their mothers’ laps out of fear! Panchalis had begun somewhere; tanked-up rakes were reciting saucy rhymes and applauding them themselves. A brawl will break out late in the night. Finally, the police will arrive and give the rascals a good hiding! A jatra was being performed somewhere, and somewhere shongs were regaling the audience with their funny antics. The women of the house were watching the fun from behind the curtains. The majlis was lit up with flaming torches. The house reeked of smoky torches and the farts of the crowd. Even the fragrance of incense couldn’t bury the stench! In some places the babus themselves were the performers. They showed tricks with mongooses and frogs, performed khemta nautches, and enacted Vidyasundar with their chums. Ma Durga trembled with fear, the lion stopped clawing at Mahisasura, and Lakshmi and Saraswati broke out in a sweat on hearing the guffaws of the audience and the shrieks of the actors! Saptami (the seventh day of the waxing moon), Ashtami (the eighth day), and Sandhipuja flew by like this. Navami, the ninth day, arrived. It was the last day of the puja. The joy that had been rising in the hearts of the people like tidewater so long suddenly began to ebb… The main roads of the city were flooded with people. The verandas of the brothels were chock-a-block with chatty men. The idols paraded through the streets with English bands, colourful banners, Turkish horsemen, and sergeants. The subject of discussion in the city that day was – “Whose idol is the best?”, “Whose pageantry is the grandest?”, and “Whose arrangements are the finest?” But unfortunately, nobody cares to ask – “Whose devotion is the sincerest?” The worshippers too don’t care a fig about such things. Prasannakumar Babu’s ghat was soon crawling with sober-looking men, kids, and schoolboys. Some worshippers carried the idols on racing boats and darted around the Ganga gleefully; high-spirited greybeards and youths danced merrily on them to the beat of drums. Bubbly babus lolled about regally on the decks of boats, pinnaces and barges, and cruised down the river with khemtawallis and baijis. The lackeys broke into a delightful song in the kobigan style - Quit the city O Mother dear And never again do come back here. The woes of Kolkata grow day by day, So it’s better Ma you keep away. Here learned Justices pass judgements prime, While city roads lie steeped in grime. For fear of all the roadway dust Our mouths and eyes we all keep shut. Crapping and piddling in public places Are now treated as grievous offences. Drawing water from the dirty drain Is also strictly forbidden. With various taxes now around Night soil can no more be found. Now people are harried by health officers, Inspectors of privies, and income assessors. The Governor eyes us nastily And bears himself too haughtily. Woes have become insufferable – The city is now unlivable. Such, Mother, is our present plight: Even death offers no respite. None any more will light our pyres We’ll now be burnt in incinerators. Sick and tired of this place Hutom now does float in space. The sun went down announcing the end of the puja revels, as it were; Dusk entered quietly in mourning clothes. The worshippers released roller birds and kites after the immersion and walked home weeping and wailing loudly with pots of Ganga water on their heads. They placed the pots in the puja sanctorum with great devotion and prostrated themselves before them. The priest sprinkled holy water on everybody’s head. The worshippers then hugged each other and feasted on bhang. After a few days of feverish excitement, the city suddenly grew quiet. The worshippers were down in the dumps. People don’t realize the power of happiness in their happy days; they realize its power only when those days are gone.