Hoary catkins danced in the crisp autumn air beneath cotton clouds scudding across an azure sky - harbinger of Durga Pooja. The festive spirit was in the clanking of coins and cacophony of people milling around shops, haggling over prices to get the best bargains in the customary buying of new clothes. Bablu was busily tossing a couple of cotton t-shirts for his little Amal in the bag when he tugged at his sleeve and pointed to a sherwani, twinkling and dangling in a special collection space, proudly announcing the price - needless to mention, way beyond Bablu's reach. For a moment, Bablu looked into Amal's wide eyes and everything around him melted into oblivion.
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'Bablu, why don't you run to Saheb's house? They wanted you to string the flowers for Durga Ma's garland. Come back soon for the pooja at home, will you?' Mum brushed his shiny sable slew of hair with her thin gnarly finger.
LiTtle Bablu was at Saheb's courtyard in no time, helping the priests prepare for the rituals. He rubbed his hands onto the threadbare cotton t-shirt he was wearing and that his mother had stitched for him last year. Once all the arrangements were in place, they settled in a semi circle before Goddess Durga's idol waiting Saheb's arrival.
Saheb wasn't late. The zari and sequins on his sherwani shimmered in the golden glow of thd grand glittering chandeliers. With his wife, draped in delicate muslin, by his side, saheb strided up to the altar where the priest was chanting hymns of yagna - a large square stepped boundary containing the flames of sacred fire. Bright tongues of flames leaped higher as the priest poured ghee and stoked the kindling beneath. A coterie of saheb's kith and kin, clothed in haute couture from trailblazing boutiques, accessoried with fine twinkling jewellery, closed in forming a circle around the pivotal pooja.
This ritzy grandure was feast for the deprived eyes of a bunch of ragamuffins, queued up, waiting eagerly for the event to end. The saheb would then endow them with generous gift of new clothes and sumptuous meals. Bablu joined his friends, eyes glistening in excitement.
'Do you know what they're giving us this year?'
'I wish I get a sherwani,' he added longingly.
'Mum was mopping the floor the other day in saheb's mansion and she overhead him saying there were better presents this year as his bada beta is now a doctor,' Bablu couldn't quell fancying.
The others sighed.
Bablu's hunch wasn't far off. The largesse indeed wheeled the heads of many as saheb's liveried labourers laid large wooden trays of presents before the altar for distribution. At the end of the filling bhoj (feast) when a red packet was handed out, Bablu could hardly contain his curiosity - with tremulous fingers and eager eyes, he ripped the cover off. Even before the raised collar of a blue sherwani peeped out of the wrap, Bablu clumsily touched saheb's feet - a gesture of thanks, clutched onto his coveted sherwani and ran for home.
'Bablu, where are you running to? Come see what baba (dad) got for you today,' mum hugged Shibu and held up a green t-shirt to his shoulder, adding, 'fits perfectly. Can you change to this new one before we start our pooja?'
Bablu's countenance changed. Frowning at the t-shirt mum held lovingly Bablu brandished the red package with a hint of rage and contempt, crying querulously, 'but I don't like t-shirt. I want to wear this sherwani.'
The green t-shirt, still in her hands, mum stood in stupor, her smile fading into the wrinkles of poverty and pain.
Pulling herself together she set aside the t-shirt, enfolded Bablu in her arms, and rubbed his head, 'Dear boy, wear the sherwani if you like. Saheb's gift is undoubtedly better than your baba's. Yet the sherwani is just a drop of Saheb's kindness. The t-shirt is all that your dad had - every penny put together. Between a glowworm and sun - don't you think glowworm is more powerful, more generous, giving every iota of light it can produce?'
Bablu didn't pay much heed to the depth of his mum's words; he happily changed to sherwani, folded his palms, and joined his mum and dad in prayer before their decent altar hosting a couple of candles and a smattering of fruit, sweets, flower offered to God.
*****
'Baba,' Amal was tugging at the sleeve of his shirt.
Shibu looked down at his son and asked gently, 'Is that all you want, beta?'
Bablu picked up the sherwani in one hand, and the t-shirt on the other as his mum's voice echoed in his ears from a distant past.
By then Bablu was of course more matured and could fathom the wise words of his mum that resonated with the renowned poet Rabindranath Tagore's lines in Pooja r Shaj:
A hard-earned apparel soaked in a destitute dad's affection lights up his boy more than an outsider's ostentatious gift.
But how was his little son supposed to know the pangs of poverty and pride of progeny woven in the threads of sherwani? A faint smile of retrospection announced his inner conflict copiously. Life brought him to the same juncture where his mum stood decades back. Uncontrollable sting of love for his mum and regret for his younger self's actions moistened the corner of his eyes as he hugged his son and rubbed his head affectionately.
Dona, Sydney, June 2023
On Binary opposites and "Threads of generations"
Beautiful!!
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