Pujon uncle was a man who would be quite visible to the locality (I had lived earlier) when he worshipped the Goddess that he mounted on a grand pedestal in a temple he built in his courtyard. In our town there were only few houses that had temples built in their vicinity. Pujon uncle’s was one of them. Almost weeks before the worshipping day, Pujon uncle would come to our house with, ‘Maer puza. (His East Bengalian tongue was in an emphatic display.) You all are invited on that day. Please come as early as possible in the evening. Puza will start after midnight. You know, I follow an authentic almanac. But I will not make you suffer on that account. Prosad will be distributed right from the evening itself.’ (Uncle’s words templated year after year with no alteration.) So we would go to uncle’s house on the scheduled day and find a jostling crowd who were busy relishing well-cooked fried rice, dhokar dalna, poneer delicacy, chutney, papad and payesh. (Lolita aunty, uncle’s wife, had done all the cooking in her own hand through the day.) After that sumptuous dinner people like me forgot to visit temple and the Goddess altogether as we with an ecstatic gourmet satisfaction ambled back home. I think the Goddess was so ashamed for our shameless behaviour that she could not help sticking out her red tongue.
The reason for recalling my old locality, Pujon uncle and his Goddess is the occasion of celebrating Tagore’s birthday. There is a Tagore birthday celebration spree all around. As during Lakshmi or Saraswati puja, priests are found pedaling their just-oiled squeaking cycles fast to move from house to house to conduct pujo, artists with new Shantiniketoni punjabi and pajama dripped in cheap/costly body spray are found running against time to reach programmes where they will sing or recite Tagore’s compositions or poems. (Off-line is not excluded. It is an added variety.) Tagore’s bearded photo is kept at the back on the stage where he remains garlanded with emaciated flowers all along the programme.
In his last birthday conversations with Rani chanda in 1941 (this lady was with him for the last ten years of his life) Tagore said that he felt ashamed as people were going overboard in their praise for him. ‘These are pointless flattery.’ He said. ‘I know how big I am. No other persons are in a position to know this. But their utterances like ‘‘you are a big man…a big name in the literary map of world…’’ put me in profound shame…… I have aged much. I have seen much. I have realized much. Now I know that there is nothing in the words they use. These are all empty words. What I am wanting badly is love. Love directly relates to life. Love is palpable. Solid. It is not flimsy. Give me love. Love is the sole lasting healing truth, not fame…’
The face of Tagore looking out in deep plaintive eyes from photo frame covered with unfresh bel and rajonigondha flowers tries hard to say how people can be so oblivious of him and his words as people are dancing, singing, reciting and giving speeches before hours-long-tested microphones as he is kept slanted in a wooden chair.
Someone starts singing the morning song deep into the evening: Bhenge mor gharer chabi nie jabi ke amare… . Tagore’s photo wobbles a bit before an organiser steadies it in time.
Another artist comes who stoops before the photo in great respect in public and sings out after drawing and releasing harmonium bellows dramatically: Tomar kathe hetha keho to bole na… The photo looks doubtful if it is a real or fake concern. There is a round of good clapping after the song. The singer with a solemn face moves on to his next song as the keyboard player makes an elaborate prelude: Mor beena othe kon sure baji…
Overlapping the song something lashes down from the above. Public run for cover leaving their chairs behind. A heavy downpour starts. There is a no-holds-barred chaos. In no time, the pandal erected collapses as strong wind flattens it down. Ashoni: people mumble. Tagore photo is shoved into a large bag by a protective volunteer to save it from threatening elements.
Within the bag, bereft of bel flowers (bel garlands are sold Rs. 50 apiece Tiklu di informs me over phone. After the rain it is slashed to Rs. 20 per pair.) and rajonigondha, the portrait looks easy as it has not to suffer butchering of his songs and his mother tongue – Bangla, anymore; at least for this year.
Now the photo finds itself hung from a club wall, newly painted. The bearded face looks brooding hard over what is in store for the coming 22nd Shravon that falls on 8th August.