The Village of Mayapur

The green fields were greener than green, speckled with countless mustard blossoms. They were so brilliant, as bright as a golden canary. I was tempted to run through these yellow dappled fields; my hair blowing in the air, as I sprinted like a weightless fairy to some catchy Bollywood tune that played in my head. However a single toe into the slushy compost that kissed their roots changed my mind. I could definitely be content with just looking, and no touching - natures eye candy per se.

I walked at a safe distant, inhaling the slightly fresher air that was getting bolder with the change of seasons.  West Bengal’s humid summer was lazily giving way to its cooler counterpart. Mayapur is a small village- town of the vibrant Nadia district, sandwiched prettily between the Ganges and Jalangi rivers. One hundred and thirty kilometers north of Kolkata, Mayapur remains unadulterated with its village culture and mentality still running strong through its veins.

Of course the contagion of modernity should never be underestimated. I never failed to snort with laughter whenever I passed outsized brand endorsement posters swallowing thatched chai (tea) stalls. Mayapur’s favourite by far had to be Pepsi, with their dashing celebrities swigging stylishly on their dark colas, a mysterious twinkle in their eyes. Hell, even I felt like buying one, just to confirm that twinkle wasn’t guaranteed.  As I always like to say, “…the proof is in the pudding my friends,” or more specifically in this case NOT in the bubbly drink. Engrossed with such nonsensical logic procured by my entertaining mind, I walked further down the dirt beaten road.

The burning sun had now mellowed out; it’s once lashing rays muted by the nippy evening breeze. October was the season of festivities, and I found myself smack in the middle of Bengal’s biggest one! Durga Puja is the most important festival for Bengalis, and celebrates the home-coming of the Goddess Durga and her four children. Not only does the celebration mark the victory of the Goddess over the buffalo shaped demon Mahishasura, it epitomizes the victory of Good over Evil. A ten day celebration, the puja peaks as the most significant socio-cultural event in Bengali society.

So it was no surprise that the residents of Mayapur went all out (all puns intended). Wrapped in their finest, they strutted along the fancily lit streets, every piece of jewelry they owned flashing boldly with their every movement. Puja was their time to shine- literally as well!

“You’re dressed like my maid” Soma said.

She disapprovingly looked over at my pink stripped kurta-top which was paired with baggy black cotton pants. I disagreed. I had specifically made the effort to brush my hair into a neat bun, rather than the messy mass that usually adorned my crown. I even stuck a big black bindi sticker on my forehead to appear more festive. She ignored my responsive shrug, nervously adjusting her sparkling accessorized hair. I was suddenly surrounded by masses of diamond encrusted chiffon saris, shimmery eye-shadow, dangling earrings, and glossy gleaming lipstick. Maybe I was slightly underdressed.

It was only 6pm, but the sky was very close to charcoal. I smiled back at the staring pilgrims that gathered around us- they strangely found me very amusing.  Famous for nurturing the roots of Gaudiya Vaisnavism (a religious movement founded by Chaitanya Mahaprabhu  in 16th century India ) Mayapur’s holy temple bells rang loud and clear into the early night. Cymbals and drums soon joined the bells, as the clear voiced, sweet chanting of worshiping monks filled the air. It was extraordinarily calming, and I greedily soaked it all in.

The pandals (creatively handmade and decorated structures of bamboo and cloth- famous in Bengal) stood proudly beautiful as we entered to pay our respects to Goddess Durga. Crafted laboriously with Ganges clay and dry straw, the goddess’s gorgeously painted eyes glared down at the speared demon that lay splayed by her rosy feet. Every year the Bengali locals competed to outdo each other by coming up with the most elaborate and innovative pandal themes; their healthy competitive spirit was definitely visually spoiling me for one. Can you imagine a pandal made of nails or rice? Well I didn’t have too…I had solid visual proof. Anyone in their right sense of mind would be in awe at the immense talent and hard work that most definitely went into recreating these fabulous scenes. It’s a real pity that they would be dismantled after a few days.  

I took another moment to gaze, but my attention was snatched by a group of dancing worshipers, who were busy shaking, their every body part, like there was no tomorrow. Six powerful boom boxes blasted the most popular tunes as arms and legs flung out enthusiastically to various rhythms and beats. Bengalis definitely knew how to have a good time, regardless of the temporary deafness they will have to suffer at the end of it all.

So I sat down on a comfortable rock, the contagious excitement bubbling inside, as I munched messily on the piping hot jalebi (traditional sweet) Soma handed me. The sugar syrup dripped down my wrists, pooling by my feet- but I didn’t care. I was in rural heaven, and nothing could tame me (or that’s what I thought at least before a colony of red ants viciously attacked my feet).