Festive Riot
Small Celebrations, 2017
For best user experience, click ‘full screen’ button on Desktop & Laptop. On mobile devices, download issuu app for ios or android.
CONTRIBUTORS Festive Riot, Small Celebrations 2017 issue.
04 SUPARNA CHAUDHURY RIJHWANI 06 SAHELI PAL 13 USHASHI GHOSH 16 HITENDRA PARMAR 17 NEHA DASGUPTA-PARMAR 18 SUSHMITA GUPTA 22 AMRITA CHATTERJEE 28 ELINA DASILVA 33 SAMBRITA BASU
EDITORIAL These past few months have been a journey. A journey not only of the heart and the mind but also a physical one. Yes! I travelled from one part of the world, uprooting myself completely to put down my roots elsewhere. In this process, I have had a mix of emotions, distancing myself yet again from people whom I called my friends, places with whom I fell in love over and over again, birds whose sounds made me feel at home, the house which had memories in every nook and cranny. It was tough and yet exciting. I was also looking forward to being in a new place, listening to the new sounds of the birds, finding new places to love and most importantly lovely people to bond with again, and make them my friends. Constant with me though are my family and so it was a collective experience. I have been constantly moving, a bit nomadic, but with each move came the realization, that nothing is permanent, that change is constant and so celebrating the small joys in our everyday life is ever so important. They provide comfort to our soul and ushers in beautiful memories. This issue of Festive Riot, simply celebrates that spirit, celebrating smaller occasions, lesser known festivals, giving importance to relationships and humanity.
The labour of love for this issue is still the same as our first one, and I am happy to finally bring it altogether, from a new place, a new home. This issue would not have been possible without the unstinted support of my excellent contributing writers and artists, whose faith is the reason behind Festive Riot. So, do read on and share it, you are invaluable too, and if you have any thoughts, ideas and positivity please bring it on. Cheers to life and to celebrations! Suparna Chaudhury Rijhwani
Edinburgh Festival It was a beautiful summer afternoon in late August when my flight touched down at Edinburgh airport. The year, 2004. I took a taxi to my B&B in the city centre. Booked with only limited availability, I was to shift to a different address after a couple of nights. Accommodation was difficult to get and the few places available, were charging an exorbitant price. It was the festival, I was told. Such was my chaotic introduction to the Edinburgh festival. Settling down to a life in a new country I only saw glimpses of the festival that year. Only during my extended stay did I gradually start to appreciate its true spirit.
Edinburgh festival, or more correctly the Edinburgh International Festival, is a month-long celebration of arts and culture, bringing the best in performing arts from around the world. Established in 1947, the International festival was soon joined by the Fringe festival where budding artists, not yet famous in the international arena, showcased their talent. Since then, a number of other festivals have started to run parallelly, bringing in a colourful diversity to the festivities.
Until a few years ago, the Cavalcade, a colourful procession through Princes Street, of the various festival participants and local community groups, marked the start of the festival. This has recently been replaced by the Carnival, as part of the Jazz and Blues festival, though the concept remains similar.
With the festival officially started, the Royal mile and its surrounding areas buzz with activities. Festival acts, dressed up in their characters, advertise their shows, distributing pamphlets trying to draw an audience. Musicians, magicians and street performers vie for attention, while stalls sell artefacts and of course food. A wander in Edinburgh's charming old town is all anyone needs to be truly immersed in the spirit of the festival.
While most events of the International festival are sold out months in advance, the Fringe is equally popular as is evident from the long queues at the venues and the ticket hub. Hundreds of Fringe are set up across the city where raw talent from around the globe entertain a very appreciative audience. Visitors arrive in thousands and the city does brisk business by renting out every available inch of space, along with restaurants gearing up with festival menus.
The saying goes that the population of the city increases by fivefold, during August. Perhaps the biggest draw of the International festival is the Edinburgh Military Tattoo, an extravaganza taking place in the castle esplanade on most evenings, throughout the festival month. Against the majestic backdrop of the Edinburgh castle, British and international military bands perform with the music, the sound of bagpipes and marching feet reverberating, as the sky explodes in a multitude of colours from the fireworks. The end of August, and the festival finally culminates with an hour-long firework display over the Edinburgh castle, at the end of the month. The cracking display of light and colour dances to the sounds of music, playing live at the Ross theatre in the Princess street gardens.
Every standing space is taken up, as people gather one last time to bid farewell to this spectacular annual event. As the night ends, the city tries to limp back to its normal pace. The festival I have seen has changed through the years. It is now a much shorter version of the more than a month-long celebration, that it used to be, while its increasing popularity has brought in more commercialisation and visitors. However, despite all the changes, the foundation still remains the same. It is still a celebration of arts and culture in a city, which has rightly earned the name of the Festival City.
SAHELI PAL TRAVELLER, BLOGGER, PHOTOGRAPHER blog
Sometimes when we are celebrating we forget the world, we forget that some others might not be as lucky as we are! We forget to include the different, the rare, the one who is not like everybody else. Then it is imperative to stop, and rekindle the humane quality in us to gather everyone irrespective of their differences or abilities.
We are all Special “The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched- They must be felt with the heart.” – Helen Keller “Ma’am, ma’am... they won’t include me in their group because I am special,” cried the tiny bundle of energy as he waddled his way towards me. His shirt tails hanging out, hair full of playground grime, tears marking dirt tracks down his cute face. Behind him came the thundering running feet of a group of “good boys”, their accusing fingers pointing at the crying form... “Ma’am, we can’t take him, it’s an inter section match and he is special…’
Again, that dead end…the gigantic bridge…that ‘us’ versus ‘them’ battle…the very tone that makes the word ‘Special’ into something vulgar and strips you of your self-esteem and confidence. I am lucky enough to be an educator, an educator in an inclusive school. I’ve always been attracted to ‘hearts’ more than traditional concept of intelligence and could identify with people who learnt differently. I remember my aunt who would hide under the bed when it was time for math but would mug up her tables by setting them to tune! Thus, when I decided to learn how children learn, I became an educator.
Inclusivity lies in our hearts and unfortunately our hearts are never as deep as we fool ourselves to believe. We are all different…but we love categorizing, ourselves as ‘WE’ the ‘Perfectly Normal’, with a halo around our heads and ‘They’ the ‘Special, the Fatally Flawed’. I have seen so called educated adults not touching a differently abled child in fear of getting…I don’t know, infected!? Learn from them and give them the confidence and encouragement to achieve their goals.
I have learnt so much from my children who are all specially gifted in some field or the other…dance, music, art, origami…half the things they can do and want to do, I cannot even dream of. They want to do things, they are fiercely independent souls. They don’t need our pity, at all. Rather, a pat on the back and an encouraging smile always work wonders. I have seen the change in myself after interacting with them closely. I’ve learnt tolerance, determination and the ability to be really happy despite and in spite of everything, from them. I agree with the saying, “Children with Special Needs come into our lives leaving footprints on our hearts…and we are never the same again.”
Ushashi Ghosh Educator, Dancer, Writer
Art: Hitendra Parmar
Let's celebrate Let's celebrate... Summer rain and the summit clouds, Dawn's breeze and evening sunsets Let's ride across the road of imagination Under the moonlit skies... Chasing our dreams with all we got, Let's celebrate life.
Neha Dasgupta-Parmar Dreamer, Writer, Human
Kali Pujo
As a little girl growing up in the lush green small town of Bhilai, my heart felt faith and fondness more for Krishna, Radha and the cowherds than ever for the goddess Kaali. To me she was fierce, terrifying and unmotherly, a goddess whose worship I postponed for the later years of my life. In scriptures and myth Krishna appears as the slayer of evil, liberator of the oppressed and the master of incarnations but I also read that he is a lover, and often would willingly put aside his power and glory, for the sake of closeness with his mortal devotees. He was the one I could love and felt could take liberties with, without a fearsome wrath being unleashed upon. I was not told, but I heard often when I would quietly sit amongst adult conversation, that Kaali was a goddess in whose prayers, rituals and rites were not only adhered to with devotion, but also often laced with a fear of doom. She demanded from her worshippers’ complete adherence to every minutest detail ever elucidated. Those with knowledge and experience say that the universe is the proverbial genie that says to each one of us at every passing moment, “Your wish is my command”!...
So, in my then said later years, which is my present time, I have come to be deeply associated with the worship of the dark mother in a land, far from our forefathers in distance and in tradition. Nine years in a row and now in the tenth year running, I observe a food and water-less fast in obeisance to the mother. Me, now all grown-up, on Anindya and Indrani’s, close friends, garden yard sharply follow every directive from Rupam, our purohit. When I sit and count the ‘belpatas’, the ‘havan’ twigs to the exact correct number, when I make sure that the ‘baran- dala’ has ‘sindur’, ‘aalta’, ‘tel’, ‘shankha’, ‘paula’ and all else, when I take care that the offerings of food prepared by ‘brahmins only’ is laid out to the Mother’s right on plantain leaf and all ‘pujo samagrih’
to her left, I know it deep in my heart that all these rules are for the mortal gods alone, who possess the immediate power to punish and reward. For me the offerings, whether of food, flower or foliage, are not a means of keeping the goddess happy but is a simple way of invoking a deep sense of unrestricted joyfulness. I bow my head with eyes closed in devotion and feel a sense of surrender in my heart, and each time I look up, I find my Mother’s eyes looking down at me with immense care and tenderness. Somehow, she manages to shower me with boundless love even with her garland of severed heads, naked body and Shiva under her feet. She, now, is a loving part of my faith and fondness just like Radha, Krishna and the cowherds of my childhood.
SUSHMITA GUPTA POET, PAINTER,TRAVELLER
Of seasons and reasons‌.. Of joy and hope‌.. The festivals and celebrations however small or big they maybe gives us that moment to break from our normal schedule. Gives us good memories to cling on to. So, wherever you are and however regular they seem, keep celebrating. Birthdays and anniversaries, local celebrations and spiritual gatherings.
Bhai Phota
As I stepped out on to the balcony to do my usual chores, I looked up at the unusually blue October morning sky and felt a tug at my heart as if I was forgetting something. The smell of incense and ghee (clarified butter), from the neighbouring Bengali families in my Housing society in Gurgaon, wafted into my nostrils and promptly moistened my eyes. I felt I could smell my childhood and I knew instantly what I had forgotten. Today was ‘Bhai Phota’. Not very long ago it happened to be one of my favourite days in the whole year. India is unique in a whole lot of ways. Celebrating relationships through festive occasions is one of the reasons for this uniqueness. The bond between a brother and a sister is a significantly important occasion to be included in the long list of festivities cherished by all Indians. Celebrated in myriad ways under different names, in various parts of the country, the innocently pure and eternally sweet brother-sister bonding is known to me, a quintessential Bengali, simply as ‘Bhai Phota’. India is unique in a whole lot of ways. Celebrating relationships through festive occasions is one of the reasons for this uniqueness. The bond between a brother and a sister is a significantly important occasion to be included in the long list of festivities cherished by all Indians.
Celebrated in myriad ways under different names, in various parts of the country, the innocently pure and eternally sweet brother-sister bonding is known to me, a quintessential Bengali, simply as ‘Bhai Phota’. Fortunately for me, I grew up in the midst of a brood of cousins. Both my parents were blessed with tonnes of siblings. Consequently, I was gifted with a houseful of cousins at every family gathering. Therefore, the occasion of ‘Bhai Phota’ at our house was always a riot of relatives all talking and laughing at the same time. On that special day, I bathed and dressed myself in a sari (the only day other than Saraswati Puja that I draped the 9 yards). I hurried my brother to take the first “phota”. The urge then was inspired largely by a need to end my fasting rather than any sisterly affection.
Fasting though was optional but I had seen my mother do it and wanted to go the full length. I still remember the preparations that I used to love doing on my own. On a tray I kept sandalwood paste, clarified butter or ghee and a stick of kohl. Before the event, a diya would be lit along with incense sticks. Every family had their own individual traditions which resulted in the varying combinations in the tray. However, no matter how different the ingredients, the emotions that a sister experiences as she dips her finger in each ingredient and presses it gently against her brother’s forehead hardly differ. After the phota was done there was a mad rush to look for tissues to wipe off the grease on our fingers and tear open the gifts. Most of the time I knew what I would be getting because we had annual meetings to discuss our gift list and even did the
shopping together. Nevertheless, for me unwrapping the gift was all part of the fun. It somehow added an additional element of ecstasy that no amount of prior knowledge of what was beneath the wrappers could diminish. There is a short rhyme that needs to be murmured as you place the ‘tika’ or ‘Phota’ on the brother’s forehead. Jokes go around as who is saying what, and brothers generally insist on the sisters saying it out loud, just in case they miss out on some part resulting in jeopardising the well-being of the brother. I had a whole brood of cousins, who would relish in cracking jokes and insist on making me repeat the chant numerous times just to make sure I get it right. One of my cousin sisters once got smart and prepared a cheat sheet so that nobody misses the lines. We were rolling out in laughter at her ingenuity.
Bengalis are celebrated the world over as being big foodies. Therefore, for us, no occasion reaches completion if we do not satiate our gastronomic desires. I still remember the hustle and bustle in the kitchen as my mother rustled up some delicacy or the other. The wait till meal times was unbearable. We watched the dining table being decked up with one mouth-watering dish after the other as everyone who came in carried a handful of goodies for the occasion. Food was always pot-luck which was the best part as all the female members in my family were and still are excellent cooks. So, we children got to taste the best cuisines. That was one such day when the women would not mind slogging at the kitchen, preparing a feast for their beloved brothers. As we grew up, we faced the challenge of living up to this expectation as our brothers always expected to get fed, in the same way as their fathers. A lot
of boisterous teasing and bantering about who could cook better kept the dining table alive and meal times became an occasion by itself. Over the years age and work took us away into different cities and sometimes even to different worlds. The numbers at the Bhai Phota gathering began dwindling. My father, the youngest sibling in his generation, still continues to look forlorn and stares wistfully as my mother prepares to celebrate the day with her few remaining brothers who are still available for the day. My brother always had and still continues to hold this day with reverence.
There was a time when he would travel all the way from Kolkata to wherever I lived (no matter where that would be) just for the ‘Phota’. Once he had a train compartment full of travellers gaping when he declared that he was not travelling for work, neither for a sick relative, but for a minor nondescript occasion like ‘Bhai Phota’. Today all the pomp and grandeur associated with Bhai phota has been reduced to a skype call. Last year my brother was heartbroken because he could not make the much-awaited journey on the special day because of work. That was the first time in forty years we would be missing the occasion. I was, however, hopeful because we had technology on our side. I decorated the tray like every year and waited for him on Skype. Though we met, it was not the same thing. It will probably never be the same again. Another year approaches and my childhood recedes yet another step away into oblivion. However, the joyous moments of celebrating ‘Bhai Phota’ with my brothers has been etched so strongly in my memories that it helps to happily wave off the mundane monotony that threatens to seep into my life so often. Rejuvenating and reviving my festive spirits always and forever.
Amrita Chatterjee Writer, explorer, Believer
Amongst all the celebrations that we do, there are ones, which are not exactly happy celebrations, not exactly celebrated to bring joy. They are celebrated to create awareness, make voices heard and to provide a platform for humanity to survive! They celebrate the human spirit and the right to survive!
Notinmyname On Thursday 22nd, four days before Eid, Hafiz Junaid was stabbed to death and his body thrown out of a Delhi-Mathura bound train. This incident was “unseen” by 200 people at the Asaoti railway station in Faridabad. His three brothers Hashim, Moin and Sakir were hospitalized with stab wounds. The fight which had begun over seats turned communal after the mob repeatedly called the brothers “anti-nationals” and “beefeaters.” Why was Junaid on that train? He had gone to Delhi from Faridabad to shop, for Eid. And that is why this piece on festivals cannot be a happy dance around the food and flavours of memory lane. It cannot be about a Christmassy vindaloo, or a chicken cutlet from a Durga Puja pandal or the Phirni that my “Class 2 best friend’s” mother made. It cannot be about the country which we left behind with our childhood, where we celebrated every festival irrespective of its religious colour with song, dance and delectable dishes. And let’s not talk too loudly about food either. Because minority protein sources like beef are forbidden food in this India which seeks ethnic cleansing every day. Hell! Forget beef, even the bland momo is under the scanner.
So, two new festivals were celebrated in India this June. One was on the 26th June, which has been called “Black Eid” , marked by the armbands which many people wore on that day. The second was celebrated on the 28th of June and it was called, “Not in My Name.” #Notinmyname was a peaceful protest started by a Gurgaon-based filmmaker Saba Dewan. On her Facebook post, Dewan questioned the conscience of the middle classes by saying, “Shouldn’t there be protests against the lynching's especially after the murder yesterday in Delhi NCR by a mob of a 16-year-old Muslim boy? If not now, then when? Why wait for political formations to organize a demonstration? Why can’t all of us as
citizens repulsed by the violence get together in protest at the earliest, next week at Jantar Mantar under the banner – Not in my Name”. And some decent people responded to her outrage. From Jantar Mantar in the heart of New Delhi to Dakshinapan in Kolkata. From the Civil Lines of Allahabad to Sector 17 in Chandigarh. From Gandhi Nagar in Jaipur to Kargil Chowk in Patna. From Tank Bund in Hyderabad to the Town Hall in Bengaluru. From the Promenade on Carter Road, Mumbai to the Gandhi Park GPO in Lucknow. From the High Court Junction in Kochi to the Secretariat in Thiruvananthapuram, citizens came together and shared their pain. They sang, they recited poetry, they lit candles.
The beauty of the #Notinmyname festival was that it was not celebrated by activists or political victims but by a set of very scared, decent, middle class people. They were scared because their neighbours and friends had grown increasingly accepting of or apathetic to this new culture of hate. They feared the belligerent trolls on social media who lashed out at anyone with a divergent point of view. They were appalled at the thought of their children growing up dented and angry. But most of all they were scared because they had finally realised that their silence could not protect them. They wanted to be reassured by the fact they were not alone, that there were other people like them, Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Sikh, Buddhist but mostly Indians who wanted no part of this evil. And what is a festival, if not a community of people marking a rite of passage or a moment in time together? But even after this event took
place, the hatemongers fought back, accusing these decent people of being “unpatriotic siculars”, and ridiculing their protest. It is with great pain that I write this article. Who looks at the torn body of a fifteen-year-old boy and says, “Serves them right”. Lynching belongs to a mediaeval mindset, not to sophisticated civilizations. There is not enough minority or Dalit blood in this country which can be shed to fulfil the impotency of broken promises made to the vote banks about job creation and prosperity. The unemployed who cannot be given jobs are being gifted with the power to inflict pain on whoever they dislike or whoever they think is responsible for their “not having”. And therein lies the problem with this “gauerment”.
As time hurries on and the angry executioner sharpens his blade, we, the minorities of India stand and wait for the next news item of lynching and persecution to inject us with our daily dose of fear. Do you know how it feels to get up every morning in your own country and feel unsafe? I do. I am but a scared member of a miniscule minority, who does not know what punishment writing this article will fetch me. But I stand by every other person in this country who is as scared as I am, offering you my words, my helpless heart and my song “Not In My Name,” until the day they come for us.
ELINA DASILVA STORYTELLER, TRAVELLER, ENTERTAINER
The spring is the most beautiful season‌.it heralds new life. When flowers push their heads through and birds start singing again. It might sound dramatic, in this age of new spanking cities and concrete jungles, yet some of us have experienced it. Spring is all about giving another chance for life to survive on this planet, it is a season of celebration altogether. So let it be spring again in all of our lives as we cheer on , on this journey called life.
Saraswati Puja While growing up in the little lane in south Kolkata, Saraswati Puja happened to be the only festival in my ‘para’. While other richer neighborhoods celebrated the big boss of all festivals – Durga Puja- my little haven had enough members, organizers and budget to celebrate what they chose to be the most important. Not second best, mind you. Most do-able. My neighbors were from Tamil Nadu, yet like a sponge cake every bit absorbed in Bangaliyana. Rajiv, my age- equivalent neighbor- like all other days would sing his raga at 4.30am on his shruti box. Saraswati puja would mean, the ‘Saraswati vandana’ shlok. My first alarm clock would be his ‘shruti box’, and the beautiful music that matched his deep voice. Getting up was never joyful, as those used to be winter mornings and leaving the bed at such unearthly hours weren't easy. However, excitements were high, for us and also for the elders. My yellow saree would be kept ready, and off I was to the pandal- my job was to paint "alpana" on the floor - that's a floor-art where Bengalis prepare designs with rice dust soaked in water for any auspicious occasion. Pishis and Mashis rushed in by 6am. Some prepared sandalwood paste and got into decorating the plates with fruits and sweets. The elders, they would effortlessly cut fruits. The in-betweeners (college goers, students), decidedly the more aggressive and energetic bunch, worked as messengers. Missing puja paraphernalia, the missing bell, conch shell, at the last moment and that bunch would bring it from their homes before being asked.
The best part was the evening before we could suspend our studies, was to decorate the pandal. We had tons of work to be done though- place beside the idol our textbooks, notebooks, pens, paint brushes, harmonium, tabla and every possible unit, which had the possibility of seeking and receiving almost ‘pointed’ blessings from the divine Goddess. We would pick the flower petals strewn at the feet of the goddess after the puja was over, and keep them pressed between the pages of our books, till the next year. The best hand to make khichdi would be responsible for the special bhog khichdi and labda, for lunch. More neighbors and even ex-neighbors, who went away to live in other areas of the city, flocked in to taste that by 1pm. Then the evenings were meant to ‘hang around’ with friends- and only on this day, friends of the opposite gender weren’t questioned about being around! It was the special day, when we could flirt a little, almost as if parents had given us an approval. Such naivety was precious during my growing up years.
Every year returns with yet another Saraswati puja. As I stare at the Goddess, I miss those days of sharing, indulging and the pleasant chaos. Saraswati, a concept I have worshipped way deeper than her Hindu roots and rituals, asks me when was the last time, I soaked rice overnight to paint an alpana on the floor‌. Perhaps it is time for me to recreate the memories for my children now, stepping into my mother’s shoes and playing the same role Ma and many other Mas did many years back.
SAMBRITA BASU STORYTELLER, PHOTOGRAPHER, TRAVELLER
Enjoyed Reading FestiveRiot? Do let us know on festiveriot@gmail.com