Just Random Thoughts

Just Random Thoughts

Poila Boishakh which falls on 14th April, 2023 is the celebration of the new year, 1430, according to the Bengali lunar calendar.

Shopkeepers will close last year’s accounts and start a new “halkatha”, which is basically a new ledger book. The customers will be thanked for the business. The new calendar and sweets are gifted to the customers.

My Ma apart from wanting to eat out and not cook this day, always reads the “ponjika” a book of predictions for the year ahead. The auspicious dates and tells me about the do’s and don’ts for the year ahead.

For me the book is historical. It was written by Beni Madhav Sheel many decades back. The tradition continues even today. The book has a pink thin paper cover with Bengali writings, which is like calligraphy on the pages. It’s love at first sight for me. Most Bengali have this book in their homes.

As a rebel, I didn’t take this seriously while I was growing up. It is only now that I find myself clamouring to the left over parts of me. The Bengali in me. There was warmth and security, in the frugality of my parents home. The Bengal loyalty was found in the cosmetic brands in their home. The refrigerator had the kasundi bottle. The shelves had the half used Boroline tube. For them it was a reminder of a place their heart belonged to. It was their ardent desire to hold on to themselves in a world that seemed to be taking them further and further away from their core and comfort. I can feel Baba’s angst in my skin today.

Like each year, Ma from Bangalore summons me to figure a way out to bring her the Ponjika from New Delhi’s quintessential Bengali colony, Chittaranjan Park.

So the past rebel in me, has quietened down. My issues are different now. They are more macro than before.

So this year too, like last year, I find that Ma has put her glasses on and like an owl reads the relevant pages. She is not herself. But she does this like habit.

This year Baba isn’t around. I have to start getting used to this. It feels he has gone out and will return home soon. A hand holding the sweet packets and asking me for a cup of tea. My eyes have become dry waiting for this miracle to happen.

When Baba was alive, we used to get together to eat a good lunch, the choice was Chinese  like most middle class Bengalis.

In the early days, when he was stronger. Baba used to take the flight, train and a car drive to go to Phulia in West Bengal to bring his heartbeat, my son, Neel, the Himsagar mangoes and the jackfruit.

He made friends with people who would oil their hand to not get glued to the jackfruit, each piece would be scavenged out of the prickly fruit, just for his grandson. The apple of his eyes.

My father and mother’s joys were in little things about the family. My Baba’s eyes would gleam to watch Neel, my son, eat the mangoes.

This year Baba will be missed sorely by Ma and I.

The mishti he used to only buy from the only authentic Bengali shop, Bancharam, in Bangalore for Poila Boisakh, won’t happen. He used to bring sweets for all the househelp and us.

So I have decided that I will continue the tradition of buying the sondesh, the mishti doi and the roshogolla for all the beautiful humans who work with me and add so much quality to my forever, anguished life in Bangalore

I know the place, reserved on the table, for Baba is going to remain empty. Ma’s heart is torn and so is mine

But here I am holding on to the lost but throbbing Bhattacharya in my name. After all it’s only 1430, we still have years to mend the heart and the fraying edges of my life.  

Final Thoughts 

Poila Boishakh is not just a celebration of a new year, but it’s also a time to reflect on our traditions, our family, and the simple joys of life. Even though the absence of a loved one can be felt deeply, the memories they left behind continue to shape our lives and keep their spirit alive. As we continue to celebrate Poila Boishakh, let us cherish the bonds that hold us together, and create new memories that we can look back on with fondness in the years to come. Let us embrace our culture, with podcast as a marketing channel, our heritage, and the values that define us as Bengalis. Shubho Noboborsho to all!

Mohua Bhattacharya Chinappa