It’s the Bengali New Year today. Wishes come pouring in and nothing is complete in the Bong culture without food and music. Not to forget the good old aada with friends.
Although I have been raised outside Bengal but my roots are intact, courtesy the parenting of my folks. They ensured we spoke Bangla and nothing else at home. They developed my taste for authentic Bengali cuisine and an immense hunger for Bengali literature. To top it all, the exposure to Tagore songs at an early age, though, honestly I couldn’t understand Him much then. But with every passing age, I kept on falling in love with this great man whom words fail to describe. I often wonder how could somebody relate to your deeper emotions and pen it down so perfectly that he becomes an integral part of your very existence. The pain of my first heartbreak, the soft caress of the first monsoon of my womanhood, the sweet pain of love, the sadness of betrayal...you name it and this great genius has it with a haunting beauty that never ceases to leave your side. My non-bong circle would never know what they are missing and to this my heart goes out especially for the women because no other man I have known who could understand women so well. Ah! Hope language didn’t come as a barrier.
My outside-Bengal upbringing has made me a cosmopolitan. Yet, sometimes I do get to hear, “You still are a bong no matter wherever you’re from”. So here’s to my bong-ness, the things which make one:
• My huge eyes with which I can petrify you and one feature which is universal in bong-women (atleast most that I’ve met)
• My addiction to speaking my mind, even when not asked for, I still love to put my point of view which usually isn’t popular and runs me to trouble
• I am not the fish-curry types but there are days when my craving for it makes me travel far in search of fish, immediately head to the kitchen with fish in hand, cook it and eat it with such impatience as if the world is going to come to an end (mind you I don’t even go to the loo till I complete this ritual at the least number of breaths)
• The constant bathroom singing which my neighbours dread and yet I don’t stop humming the Tagore numbers (even if the lyrics can offend any pakka Bangali or Mr. Tagore might come down to punish me)
• The calculations and planning of outfits to wear during the Pujo days for months before. Saving the new dresses to wear in the mornings and evenings of Durga Pujo. The sudden plunge to wear sarees during those special days with matching accessories. And mind you nothing should repeat. The emptiness when Maa Durga goes back with Doshomi celebrations. The moist eyes bids farewell to Her as if She is a part of the family to be seen only in the next year.
• A funny nickname which means nothing. Weird to sound but I respond to it instantly when called from anywhere in the world.
• My strong affiliation to rice (bhaat). Whether I diet or die, I need rice atleast once a meal. I can eat rice with anything and everything. I need no reason or season to eat rice.
• My attraction towards people who are intellectual rather flashy. People who speak well and read well. I always liked people who made a lot of sense though I fail to make sense at times. My partiality towards the big jhola, spectacle and 100% cotton look.
• My love for Rabindranath, Sharad Chandra, Satyajit which makes me keep coming back to them.
• My aversion to the winters and the tendency to layer myself with clothes to beat the cold. I would have worn a monkey cap (the signature bong look) had there been no peer pressure.
• My hunger to save money and keep going for trips to lesser known destinations. Even you would agree that no matter which part of the world you go, you will always see a Bong.
Pic Courtesy: Google Images
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