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Published: November 30th 2012
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My pilgrimage over, I was told by my future employer in the dance company to hurry back to Kolkata. There were several upcoming performances and I needed to start rehearsing. Almost three months since the job offer had been extended, I was finally going to be dancing! My excitement escalated, and I was even warming to the idea of living in Kolkata. Based on my previous experience there, I knew I’d have to work at letting go of the negative impressions it had left in my mind. We can only experience what our mindset dictates, so I set about breaking down all the doors that stood between me and seeing the city without any reservations or judgment.
For the most part, I was successful in my endeavor, and I found Kolkata an agreeable place to be. The weather certainly helped to that end – it wasn’t just nice, it was perfect. The oppressive heat that had held me prisoner indoors in July had disappeared. In its place was a benevolent sun that warmed the skin without overheating the body. At night, it was cool enough to snuggle under a cover, without being cold enough to fear poking your feet out.
The mosquitoes weren’t even a bother.
But if the bugs didn’t trouble me, the men most certainly did. Near my house, I had found a beautiful park highly reminiscent of New York’s Central Park. It became my routine to spend afternoons there, reading by the lake. It wasn’t too long, however, before men started swarming around me. They’d ask small questions, “Time?” or make odd demands, “Ma’am, give me water.” And they followed me everywhere. If I slowed down, they slowed down. If I sped up, they sped up to match my pace. If I stopped altogether to put distance between us, they’d hide behind trees and wait. One afternoon, their persecution was so unbearable that I asked a policeman to escort me out of the park. With the officer at my side, the men scattered like flies.
I started thinking that maybe I’d opened the wrong doors, that I had let things in that were perhaps better left outside, like a dog who has rolled on a rotting fish. Scenes of suffering tore at my heart. Two little boys, no older than 3 and 5, with their hands shoved into empty Lay’s bags collecting refuse off the
streets. They placed the rubbish into wicker baskets and carried it away on their heads. An old man with a horrible case of elephantitis, his legs swollen, the skin hardened and cracking, like the bark of an oak tree. I saw an hour-old baby on one street corner, and a man lying dead around the next. It all made me feel so helpless.
No matter how many doors I’d opened, I had missed one somewhere. It was the door that guarded all of Kolkata’s greatest mysteries, but it was locked and hidden away in some dark recess. For, despite finding it pleasant enough, Kolkata remains an unsolvable enigma for me. There’s something about it that I just don’t understand. There’s something in the eyes of its residents that makes me uneasy, and fills me with an overwhelming sense that I don’t belong. I was later told that Bengalis think that people with light hair look as if their heads have been covered with bird droppings. So, maybe that’s why everyone was always giving me the stink eye (at least those who weren’t giving me the scary stalker eyes).
From the moment I arrived, there were signs that things
weren’t going to work out. My employer wouldn’t look me in the eyes and only spoke to me through a (male) intermediary. The work visa I’d been promised would be procured for me became an impossibility to obtain (unless I wanted to leave India for another two months). I was pulled out of shows at the last minute, with no apology and only lame excuses. Instead of making money, I was throwing it away on over-priced rent and transportation to and from the studio.
The whole situation felt forced and unnatural. And I realized that I didn’t really want to dance. Well, I do want to dance – I’ll always want to dance – but not in choreographed steps with a blinking green star attached to my head. So, it was settled. I was leaving. No sooner had I unpacked all my stuff, than I packed it all up again. But I couldn’t leave Kolkata until after Diwali, the Festival of Lights that signals the triumph of light over darkness, of good over evil. The streets had been decorated with lanterns of all colors and big blinking boards that depicted various gods and religious scenes, as well as images
one wouldn’t necessarily expect to find in a Hindu festival: comic book superheroes, mermaids, and what I’m pretty sure was the Easter Bunny.
In West Bengal, Diwali coincides with the Kali Puja. From elaborate, multi-storied structures to modest cloth constructions,
pandals had been erected throughout the city to house idols of the goddess Kali. The annihilator of evil forces, Kali has a terrifying visage. Her skin black or blue, she stands naked, but for a garland of human heads and a skirt of arms. In one hand she holds a severed head, in another she wields a scimitar menacingly above her head. Her tongue lolls out of her mouth, dripping blood. Her eyes are red with intoxication, her hair disheveled. She stands on top of her husband Shiva, the god of destruction.
Devotees pray to Kali for the strength to overcome evil. To me, she is the most interesting character in all of Hinduism. Legend has it that Durga and the eight Matrikas (mother goddesses) set out to destroy the demon Raktabija. But instead of slaying him, they made the situation worse, as each drop of his blood produced a demon clone. In need of help, Durga summoned
the ferocious Kali, who came charging onto the battlefield, chopping off the heads of the evil spirits with her scimitar and stringing them around her neck. By lapping up his blood and devouring all of his duplicates, she destroyed Raktabija. Drunk on her victory and the blood of her victims, she began dancing with a destructive fury that could be calmed by none, except Shiva. He lay on the ground amongst the dead and as Kali danced over him, she stomped on his chest. Shamed by what she had done to her husband, she stuck her tongue out and her anger was pacified.
As many times as I had envisioned making my own garland of heads from all the men who had been dogging me throughout town, I was oddly unexcited about celebrating this uniquely Indian event. Sure, the iconography was different, but was the festival really all that
different? I had the feeling that I’d seen it all before, and that I’d see it all again. I didn’t feel like I’d be missing all that much if I stayed at home by myself. Oh my goodness, it’s true, I
am getting old.
I celebrated at a personal
pity party for a while then got my act together to meet up with a friend. He lives a considerable distance from the city center, where the neighborhood streets are relatively unfrequented and sleepy. But for Diwali, they had come to life. Each family had its own arsenal of firecrackers, which they fired off into the wee hours of the morning in an unremitting campaign against evil spirits. Smoke hung thick in the air, diffusing the multi-colored lights from the lamps into a preternatural glow. It was a pleasant way to pass the night, and I was happy to have participated, even if only slightly.
But I was even happier about my decision to go back to Bombay the following day. Back to Bombay, where friends have become family. Back to Bombay where I can feel sand between my toes and a sea breeze on my face. Back to Bombay where I’ve been able to decipher a method in its madness, and back to Bombay where inspiration greets me on every corner.
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samuel david
non-member comment
Very nice blog. Again, very honest and...excuse my saying so, but excellent English for an American! And I am glad you like Bombay so much...it is the city that I grew up in.