Durga puja - Western style

For us it was always Christmas that was the major festival during the year and not an Indian or Hindu one.  School life built up to Christmas with special meals and carols, there was a large decorated Christmas tree at home with masses of presents, and Christmas lunch was probably the only time in the year when we sat down to eat together. As the numbers of Bengalis in the UK increased there were more Durga Pujas festivals held.

Religion didn’t play that great a part in our parents’ lives. My father had a mini-shrine in his bedroom with icons of various Gods bought from India, and a bottle of Ganges water – very holy in the Hindu religion. Prayers were said very much in the Western manner with the palms together. Apart from some visits to Durga Pujas, that was really our only exposure to Hinduism. My first trip to a Hindu temple wasn’t until I was in my early 20s on an extended holiday in India. We went to a temple in Tarakeswar, about 40 miles from Calcutta, where my father had partially been brought up. The head priest was an old school friend of my father’s and said prayers with us. I just remember being appalled at the lack of hygiene in the temple but that was redeemed later by probably the best shingaras - Bengali samosas – I have ever had in the priest’s quarters. By contrast the Hindu temple we visited in Delhi a couple of years ago was very clean and well-kept.

A couple of weeks ago I was researching into London Durga Pujas which is the main Bengali festival. Amongst Bengalis Diwali – the Festival of Light – does not feature prominently. A Bengali festival, Kali Puja, generally coincides with Diwali. I don’t think I was I was aware of Diwali until I was a grown-up. Perhaps this is another example of the “Bengalis are different” sentiment. My understanding is that most other Hindu groups from India celebrate their own festivals at about the same time as Diwali. Having been in Calcutta at Diwali I found Bengalis were aware of it but there seemed to be no active mass celebrations. The main hotels did, however, make great efforts with beautiful flower displays and floating candles in swimming pools.

Talking to my cousin in Seattle recently he recounted that when he was resident in London in the late 1960s there were numerous separate pujas and remembered a particular one in Hampstead that he attended. I found there were at least ten separate Durga Pujas in and around London which I think shows both how important the festival is and the numbers of Bengalis in the UK today.

In Birmingham where I grew up there were at least three separate Durga Puja events and the staging, organisation, and personalities were often very political. For my parents in particular it was a great time, and in the main a social event. My mother would attend one puja on her own during the day, and then another in the evening with my father. She would cook large pans of vegetarian food, chickpea curry comes to mind, to serve to worshippers and revellers. As I recall food was a very important part of the festivities. Rather sadly it seems there are fewer Durga Pujas held in the Midlands than in the past. Perhaps gradually most of my parents’ generation have retired and most of the new first generation arrivals have settled in the South of England.

Durga Puja generally takes place over about a week, and most organisations in the UK would rent a church hall or similar facilities. There would be a huge display on a dais or stage of a papier mache Durga – generally imported from Calcutta - dominating the hall like an altar and a place for offerings. An uncle on a Puja committee would store the Durga in his garage the rest of the year. Each day and evening there would be various pujas or religious services followed by lunch and dinner, and sometimes entertainment such as Tagore plays and music. We as children often attended but we had very little cultural context or education, and the thought of just sitting there while the adults were engaged was not really appealing. I think most nisei Bengalis disappeared from Durga Pujas during their teenage years perhaps to make a reappearance in their 20s wanting to reconnect with both their culture and local aunts and uncles.

It was only recently that I went again to Durga Puja. We went to events in Kings Cross and Ealing Town Hall. Both were very crowded, and it was very difficult to understand what was going on; perhaps my lack of religious education made it harder. In addition, we felt most of the attendees were first generation recent arrivals from Bengal. I suppose I was quite surprised at the lack of second generation or nisei like me. Trying to find food, not knowing anyone there and the crowd density made the event difficult to enjoy and I sadly felt rather at sea.

Certainly the Durga Pujas held in the UK have had fresh impetus from new arrivals of Bengali origin, but it is striking that few second generation appear to have an interest in maintaining their parents’ tradition although that might be just be a mix of intermarriage, greater integration rather than an outright rejection of their parents’ culture.

Preview: Shreya Ghoshal at The Royal Albert Hall (Monday 6th May 2013)

Alas we won’t be able to go to this event but given the quality of Indian singers we have seen in London recently I don’t think readers will be disappointed.  We were blown away by Shankar Mahadevan in particular and look forward to his next concert in London.

At the time of writing there only appears to be standing room in the gallery available at the RAH (which has a maximum capacity of c6,000) for Shreya’s concert which must show the latent demand both for her and Indian singers in general. Judging by her Twitter feed (@shreyaghoshal) she seems very excited at the prospect of this concert. On this tour Shreya will also grace Newport in Wales, Manchester and Birmingham.

Shreya Ghoshal is of Bengali birth and background but she was raised in Rajasthan (Susen always seems to find a Bengali connection somewhere - Sue). At about the tender age of 16, following an appearance on an Indian reality show, she sang Aishwarya Rai’s part in Devdas (see my posting Bollywood and Me). Since then Shreya’s sung in many movies and languages and appeared as a judge on a number of Indian shows such as Indian Pop Idol, and sang on one of SRK’s latest movies Jab Tak Hai Jaan (see our review).

If you are fortunate enough to be going to any of her concerts please let us know your thoughts on the website, Twitter and Facebook.

Ravi Shankar - The Passing of a Legend

I woke today to the sad news overnight that Ravi Shankar had passed away in California. I saw him perform three times, twice in London, at the Royal Albert Hall, and once at Lichfield Cathedral. Shankar stayed at my Uncle’s house close to the Cathedral and I was asked if I wanted to meet him. I said no, thinking I would have nothing to say to him, and that he would be overwhelmed with visitors. I rather regret that now.

I only learnt today that Shankar was of Bengali heritage; somehow I’d presumed he was from elsewhere in India. But really that is not a surprise as you may know Bengalis consider themselves the most cultured group in India.

Shankar was a limited presence in our household when we were growing up. My father had a couple of his albums – the fusion work with Yehudi Mehudin. To my ears the music was a revelation, a stark contrast to most of the music I had grown up with. Not only was the sound different but the pieces (ragas) were almost orchestral in length – no short songs – requiring complete focus and dedication from the sitarist and the accompanists who did not have the music in front of them. That meant each performance was different, the artists jamming. What I loved was that Shankar would introduce the ragas in some detail when performing describing the scenario. To someone like me, interested in the music but without any introduction that was as important as the music itself.

Shankar was originally a dancer, touring Europe before the Second World War with his family before switching to the sitar at the relatively late age of 18. He spent some 7 years learning his instrument at the feet, literally, of masters of the sitar. Thereafter he built his reputation touring India, and eventually composing and performing for All India Radio (the equivalent of the BBC). Film assignments for both Hindi and Bengali movies, most notably for Satyjit Ray’s (yet another Bengali) Apu trilogy, sealed his reputation within India as its premier sitarist.

Probably Shankar would have stayed unknown in the West were it not for the drug fuelled 60s hippie revolutions. The Beatles came calling, with George Harrison in particular, keen to learn the sitar. Two Beatles songs, Norwegian Wood, and Within You Without You were in large part sitar driven. Shankar played at numerous festivals in the US in the 60s, when he memorably described the audience as “stoned”. For Shankar his music had spiritual overtones and he felt the audiences were not interested in that aspect, more interested in enjoying themselves. Partially for that reason he withdrew from the festival circuit but by then his reputation was made and he toured globally.

I realise that when I saw him 25 years ago at Lichfield Cathedral he was probably at his peak – it was a privilege to see him then. It was for me one of the few connections to India I had; India was seemingly exotic and different, and Shankar exemplified that. Indeed so besotted was I that I asked my mother for a sitar when I was 19; Mum, I’m still waiting!!!

Apart from Shankar’s position as the preeminent sitarist of his era, he has two important legacies. Firstly, the major musicians who count him as a major influence. These include Philip Glass, Yehudi Menuin, The Beatles, and A.R. Rahman, the Bollywood composer, amongst others. His other contributions are his musician children Norah Jones and Anouskha Shankar.

Secondly, he made what is now known as “World Music” accessible. It meant that Peter Gabriel introduced Youssou N’Dour to the world, followed by artists like Baba Maal. Almost at the same time Paul Simon went to Soweto in South Africa to meet with and record with Ladysmith Black Mambazo for his Graceland album. Shankar’s legacy are the world musicians, from India and Africa in particular, who appear at venues like the South Bank every season.

The Real Namesake?

For those of you who are not aware, 'The Namesake' (by Jhumpa Lahiri) is set in a Bengali family - from a similar background to mine, although the fictional family is in the engineering profession and in the US, while mine are medical and, of course, are in the UK.  Jhumpa Lahiri was actually born in London before her family headed to the East Coast.

The Namesake, both the book and the movie, were a eyeopener for me onto the world of Bengalis, and the Bengali diaspora. Families were tight-knit, in those days sending many letters home each week. They visited Calcutta almost each summer to ensure their children connected with their relatives. Bengalis also believed they were the “chosen ones”, with their emphasis on literature and music, often to the detriment of their economic success. I also learnt about many Bengali traditions - such as the “bhat” (rice) ceremony, the equivalent of a christening.

The scenes in the film where the family visit Calcutta one summer almost exactly mirror my own trip when I was 19. We were shocked by the poverty and the stark differences in lifestyle between our cousins and ourselves.

But the main interest for me in the Namesake was the focus on names. After I read the book I said to friends I should sue Jhumpa Lahiri for stealing my story. To recap, the main character was given the formal name of Gogol, his father’s favourite author. Details of his real formal name had not arrived in time from Calcutta. Teachers at his American kindergarten refuse to accept his revised formal name, and so he is known to his chagrin as Gogol throughout his schooling. But before going to college he finally tires of the teasing and changes his name to Nikhil, shortened for the benefit of Americans to Nik. The rest of the book focuses on the pull of Bengali culture despite his being an American.

My proper name is Susen, chosen I believe by my uncle in Calcutta, but approved by my parents. It’s a name I’ve never been comfortable with; firstly, it’s a name my parents never used (they used my nickname which is so embarrassing I won’t reveal it; but as an example my brother’s nickname is that of Yogi Bear’s friend. More Gold Points for anyone who knows what that name is). So I had no idea how the name is pronounced. A toddler would generally hear their name thousands of times before they went to school whether the name is unusual or not.

Jhumpa Lahiri’s first name is her nickname but is to my mind a rather good name. Lahiri herself remarked about her proper name:

"I always felt so embarrassed by my (proper) name.... You feel like you're causing someone pain just by being who you are (USA Today).

Lahiri’s proper name is Nilanjana Sudeshna.

I have heard of many embarrassing nicknames for women in particular, like Mumpy and Dumpy.

Secondly, the name is a very close relative of a girl’s name in the West. That really did not make for a happy time at school. I thought I had escaped at my last school, a public school, where everyone was referred to by their surname only, but the name leaked out. You might argue that my parents were not aware that Susan was a girl’s name but my father had been in the UK for 3 years before I was born, working as a junior doctor, seeing female patients when Susan was a very popular name. One of their close friends had a daughter named Susan.

In Bengali culture most people have two sets of names: their formal name for documents and work perhaps, and their family nickname. I don’t understand how this works in practice; how would I call someone on the phone when I only know their nickname? Or even worse know only their identification by their position in the family hierarchy; so, for example my father’s eldest brother has a specific designation, and almost everyone else in the family. There are relatives I only know by their designation, not their nickname or proper name. So, for example, my cousin in Seattle has four names: his formal name, nickname, the bastardised form of his formal name as Americans can’t pronounce it (so he’s Bob, which bears no relation to his proper name), and his hierarchical name, which I use. I’ve tried to get in touch with people on Facebook and been asked “who are you?” since they only know me by my nickname. In Western society most people have only one name, and even nicknames are diminutives of their proper names e.g. Susan becomes Sue, or Christine become Chris etc.

I should perhaps have changed my name as the chief protagonist in The Namesake did but it was never the right time and I had too much (misplaced) respect for my parents together with an inability to express my own identity. This was compounded by the fact that I had almost no exposure to Bengali names; what would I change my name to? I knew Uncles as Uncle, had no Bengali friends, and cousins would be referred to by their nicknames. In retrospect a name that works in both Western and Bengali societies would be the best compromise; my nephew is Robin (named after Tagore); other possible names are Nikhil, Krishnan, and I’m told, Josh. A little thought when I was christened would have been welcome.

I guess my parents weren’t aware of the importance of names in Western society; how your name is your brand, your face to the world. Conclusions are reached based on your name: your class, your age. Something that’s easy to understand and pronounce is important too; I’m sure my name has inhibited me, it makes communication difficult when even working in an organisation for 3 years your name is pronounced 3 different ways. I should probably have been more assertive; nowadays I have stopped apologising for it, and cut off anyone who mispronounces it, or asks for me as “Susan”. If I get a call for Susan I put the phone down. I’ve only recently stopped introducing myself as Mr. My mother says the problem is that not enough people know the name; that’s the rub, if there were thousands of Susens that would solve the problem. Yes, some names are ambivalent but they are well-known. I sometimes joke that if I had a son he would be called Leslie Hillary so he might appreciate some of the issues I have had.

While I do appreciate that my parents were immigrants by the time I was born it they should have realised the importance of names in British society, and later it would have been apparent that they’d made a mistake. It is hard enough growing up the child of immigrants, and been differentiated as almost the only brown boy in a particular school, but it doesn’t help if matters are compounded by having a girl’s name. Most parents take great care over their children’s names to ensure they are not a focus for teasing, and the name is reasonably well-known. I don’t want to renounce my Bengali heritage as it is a great part of who I am, and I respect the general naming conventions, but I would have appreciated a simple, bland name.