Sunanda K Datta-Ray: From 'devcom' to 'comdev'

WHERE MONEY TALKS

Now that the upheavals of Durga Puja are safely over, though skeletal pandals still block some Kolkata streets, no doubt waiting for the Diwali splurge to come, I can make a confession.

No one has troubled me for donation (chanda) for several years. Once we had to fight off rival gangs of youths armed with subscription books, but no more.

The last time my generosity was sought "" and spurned "" was the first puja after I returned from Singapore after six or seven years. I expected to be milched when a dozen young men streamed into the living room.

The one who was obviously their leader, older and with a certain daredevil gravitas, made himself comfortable in a sofa without a word or nod to me, pulled a pad out of a briefcase that a flunkey handed him, and began to scribble. The others scattered themselves about the room, perching wherever they chose.

Tired of waiting for an explanation, I eventually broke the silence.

"Is this for Durga Puja?"

The leader nodded while he scribbled, without even taking his eyes off the pad.

Writing done, he tore off the page and held it out. I took it, glanced down and saw printed details about full page, half page, colour, black and white and costs.

"What's this for?" I asked.

"Puja!" was the terse reply.

"But this isn't a chanda book?"

I ventured.

"Of course, it isn't!" snapped the leader. "Who wants chanda? You think we'd take all this trouble just for chanda?"

"Then what..." I began but he cut in with "Advertisement!"

"How can I advertise?"

"Aren't you connected with a big paper?" he demanded.

"That was a decade ago."

"Then there's no point," he snapped, snatched the page out of my hand and tore it up. The delegation trooped out.

I had been on the fringes of this puja group since the age of nine. I had gone away to England, lost touch, returned, resumed contact, then moved house and lost touch again.

But since my mother stayed on in the old house, I was a regular visitor and kept abreast of developments. The transformation to what I can only call "devcom" (devotional commerce) or, perhaps, "comdev" (commercial devotion) took place in the middle and late 1990s.

Once, the big boys in charge of the puja even roped me in, unknown to my family. I set out carrying a virginal subscription book, and was pleased and proud to wheedle a rupee each out of family friends. A rich greatuncle gave eight annas.

A shop booted me out, saying, "Send the older boys", one family said their loyalty was to an adjoining puja, another reminded me that I should have known of the death in the family which made it impossible for them to take any part in the celebrations.

Their inquiry whether my parents were unaware of the bereavement put my father wise to my volunteer enterprise. He put his foot down and I had to give back the book with just those first three slips filled in and two-and-a-half rupees cash.

"At least you haven't returned an empty book," said the big boys consolingly.

It was do-it-yourself all the way. When someone remarked that the images of Durga and her offspring stood out rather starkly, a legion of boys spread out to borrow pots of palm, fern and croton from the neighbouring bungalows to bank up all round the deities.

Every householder gave readily, and the plants were meticulously returned. Patriotism demanded the Asoka Pillar in 1950, though Republic Day was eight months old by the time of the pujas, and to me was assigned the task of drawing the lions. I did so in Chinese ink on four sheets of foolscap paper gummed together, and the result of my nightlong endeavour was pinned prominently above the shamiana entrance.

The money left in the kitty after the puja was used to stage a streetcorner play, a dreadfully amateur performance with boys always dressed as girls. If some money still remained, it was used for what we called a "feast" "" rice, goat's meat curry and tomato chutney "" cooked by the boys in someone's kitchen and served in our garage. We squatted on the floor in two rows, plantain leaves in from of each eater. The "feast" was the height of luxury.

Then, a politician moved to our neighbourhood and took over the puja. Being part of his political entourage only gave an extra fillip to a trend that was already aggressively manifest all over West Bengal. From souvenir brochures, advertisers took over the pandal itself. The structures became ever more fancy, created from novel materials and conjuring up exotic themes.

Avenues of illuminated scenes and slogans lead to the goddess between rows of shops that sell everything from kebab rolls to mutual funds. Fortunes are made in bidding for lighting and decorating contracts. I am told that fortunes are also spent in entertainment.

I don't know what it's like for Dusserah, but if money talks all year round, it shrieks when Bengalis celebrate Durga Puja.