Sharodiya Anjali 2005 - Pujari

__________________________________________________________________Durga Puja 2005
any planting is difficult business, but
he had not stopped at that. He had
taken trees and shrubs from here and
abroad, and with a strong hand shaped
them to his will; made midgets of trees
that are naturally tall, trees that stand
straight were twined creeper-like, And
yet, in those unnatural conditions, the
plants were not in suffering; they were
full of life and health, sprouting
flowers, bearing fruit. A technology
reminiscent of the Maydanab, all the
more amazing because there was
nothing magical about it, this was a
real science. Two peacocks roamed the
garden, two storks, like ancient sages,
sat in meditation at one end of the
artificial tank; on the other we saw a
bare-footed English woman working
on an open-mouthed Makara figure.
When we talked to her, she said that
no sooner did she start work than a
hundred million ants would arrive and
drive her insane. The ant-bites were
certainly not enticing, but that apart,
what could be nicer than sculpting
alone in these idyllic surroundings. It
gave us pleasure to stand by and
watch. The sun was setting, a reddish
glow had fused the sky and the earth;
the waters, the trees, the land were all
flushed with happiness. In this corner
of the garden was Pratima Debi’s
studio. The lower floor had remained
in disuse for long; recently
Rathindranath had converted it into an
office for himself. The room was cavelike,
cramped, with low-ceilings. The
walls were inlaid with rocks and
creepers climbed among them,
accentuating the likeness. With
another room over it, it was not too
warm; this was an especially secluded
and charming nook. Within, there was
a rather small low table, a couple of
chairs and a very high cushion-strewn
bed. The room had a distinct character,
which it owed to something beyond
the mere furnishings.
In Santiniketan, the houses are built
low, the windows are set low in the
walls; the furniture within the rooms
are low. But I have to extol the
windows. Nowhere else in our country
have I seen such big open windows.
Since there are no thieves, there are no
window bars; the windows are
freeways for the winds, the fields and
the sky outside an unmarred panorama.
One day in Malancha, I sat at a
window looking to the west. It was a
sunless day; the eyes raced over an
endless vista, as if beyond was the
edge of the earth, and beyond that
nothing. It reminded me of the Nilkhet
in Ramna, but where in East Bengal
would you find such endless
emptiness! There, the vision would, in
the very least, be impeded by clusters
of trees.
Our room in Ratankuthi had a large
window that opened to the east. We
had found it closed ever since we
arrived, and had left it unopened. We
were hardly ever in the rooms, and had
paid scant heed to it. One afternoon, I
was working at the table, plenty of
wind blew in through the door in the
south, yet it was very warm. Suddenly
Makshirani came in and threw the
window open. At once, great gusts of
the untamed east winds blew away my
papers, and amazed, we discovered a
spectacular view lay before us. Alas,
all those days we had left the window
shut, and unminding robbed ourselves
of such a feast that was ours for the
taking. And now we were leaving, the
very next day. But happily, we did not;
we stayed on for a few more days and
enjoyed the view.
After the discovery of the window, it
became a regular game for our little
girl to repeatedly open and shut it. The
attraction lay in the fact that the
window was so low that she could
reach it unaided. Had I asked her to
open and close it interminably, she
would have been pleased to exercise
her new ability, but her happiness was
considerably marred by the foolish
proclivity of the aged for the status
quo. The furniture was so low that
even Madam Tiny could make some
independent use of them, and we
were always in fear for the safety of her
body parts and other breakable items.
The distinctiveness of the furniture
struck one at first sight. In Santiniketan, I
did not see the smallest item of use that
was not also pretty. Not only pretty, but
also original; not only original, but with
a distinctive character. Each item seemed
to possess a strong identity. Chairs,
tables, beds, curtains, all had a certain
trimness, a complete lack of ostentation;
here too the east and west had come
together. The structure was English, but
they had been built to an Indian meter;
the dining chairs lacked backs and in
attempting to lean back, we had been
fooled many a time--- the purpose was
probably to encourage the Indian practice
of sitting cross-legged on the floor to eat.
And the same chairs could easily be used
in the morning and evenings as teatables;
the dresser could easily hoard the
provisions for a small family. The multipurpose
furniture exhibited an elegant
economy in the management of space
and objects; none of the rooms
seemed overcrowded, yet lacked nothing.
I had often noticed, in the poet’s many
homes, concrete benches fixed to the
walls--- they could serve as shelves for
books and papers, or a place to sit on if
somebody dropped by. There were
cupboards hidden in the walls too; you
could sit on the windows and enjoy the
view, and stow away things in the dark
cavity beneath. No doubt, if ever such
architectural norms become prevalent in
the Calcutta apartments, we might be
able to best utilise the limited space
available to us here.
What is most pleasing is the absence of
ostentation in the furniture. In their
ability to dazzle the eye with their
magnificence, no doubt they would play
second fiddle to expensive, imported
furniture. But when the Calcutta rich
furnish their homes with pieces from the
Army and Navy stores, it might evoke
our jealousy, but not our respect, for we
know that he has come to possess all that
by dint of mere money, and if tomorrow
I come by riches, I might come to own
fancier stuff. Their glory lies in their
price tags.
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Sharodiya Anjali 2005 15 n¡lc£u¡ A”m£ 1412