Bengali – Diva's View

This weekend, I rewatched a Bollywood favourite, Rocky Aur Rani Kii Prem Kahaani, a love story between a Punjabi man and a Bengali woman. Being of Bengali descent, I find something deeply comforting in its portrayal of a Bengali family: the banter, the poetry gatherings, the familiar rhythms of family life.

But it was the Durga Puja scene that made me especially nostalgic. Growing up, Durga Puja was our most important celebration. Watching the festivities, with their beautiful red-and-gold saris, brought back memories of one particular sari and the woman who made it for me.

I must have been four or five when I took part in a cultural event with a group of children. We were presenting the Bengali alphabet and reciting poetry, and we were all expected to wear our finest Bengali attire.

My mother, who was of Trinidadian descent, always took pride in making sure we were properly dressed. This occasion would be no different. There was just one problem: I was tiny, and finding Indian clothes that fit me was a challenge.

So my mother decided to make me a sari.

She went to Fabricland and found a piece of shiny material in a beautiful shade of red. Then she chose a gold trim to sew along the top and bottom edges. She made a matching blouse, complete with puffed sleeves and gold trim around the cuffs.

To anyone else, it might have been a little red sari. To me, it was an outfit fit for a princess, made especially for me by my mother.

On the day of the performance, she put liquid eyeliner on my eyes. It stung. Even now, whenever I use liquid eyeliner, I think of her. She finished with a little lipstick, and then I was off to stand before an audience of 300 people and deliver my line.

I said it perfectly. But what I remember most is not the line, or even the audience. I remember how pretty I felt.

In that little sari, I felt as Bengali as I could possibly be. Looking back, I also see my mother’s love in every detail: the carefully chosen fabric, the gold border, the puffed sleeves. She had taken the time to make something that allowed me to feel part of a tradition, rather than a child struggling to fit into clothes that were too big.

That was the first of several red saris that would mark important moments in my life.

When I was pregnant with my daughters, I wore a red sari for a religious ceremony. Once again, it had to be custom-made, this time to accommodate the precious cargo I was carrying. By then, my mother’s health no longer allowed her to make another magical red sari for me. I had to turn to someone else, but the memory of the first one stayed with me.

And, of course, I wore a beautiful red sari for my wedding ceremony, as tradition called for. We had purchased it in India, and I have kept it carefully, just in case a future generation would like to wear it.

Watching that Durga Puja scene reminded me how much a colour, a piece of fabric or a familiar celebration can hold. For me, the red sari carries memories of childhood, marriage and motherhood. It connects the traditions I grew up with to the ones I hope will continue.

But before all of that, there was my mother, a piece of shiny red fabric and a little girl who could hardly wait to step onto the stage. Thank you Mom for giving me that memory and heritage and making me feel so loved. It is why Red remains such an important colour for me.

But that’s just one Diva’s view.

Learning about my Bengali heritage was a big part of my childhood. I went to Bengali school every Saturday morning for years, learning how to speak and write in Bengali.

I loved writing the letters and learning the sounds, but hated speaking in Bengali. I grew up in a house where we spoke English and therefore, I was always uneasy speaking in Bengali – I did not have that environment to feel comfortable to try and fail.

And when I sang in Bengali, I worked really hard on my pronunciation, but there was always a critic. But we had Bengali music playing in our house a lot. My Dad worshipped the songs of Tagore and we grew up learning the genius of Rabindranath Tagore. Not only was I expected to know his music and songs, but I was required to recite the English translation before I sang, so that I understood what I was singing. When I was younger, I was focused more on hitting the right notes and pronouncing the songs properly, than truly understanding the lyrics.

The first Bengali song I performed when I was 4 or 5 years of age was Alo Amar Alo Ogo. Now when I look at the lyrics – I truly understand them and am in awe, but it did not have the same impact on me when I was younger:

Light, my light, the world-filling light, the eye-kissing light, heart-sweetening light!
Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the centre of my life; the light strikes, my darling, the chords of my love; the sky opens, the wind runs wild, laughter passes over the earth.
The butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light. Lilies and jasmines surge up on the crest of the waves of light. 
The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling, and it scatters gems in profusion.
Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling, and gladness without measure. The heaven's river has drowned its banks and the flood of joy is abroad.

Tagore was like another God in our house. We proudly sang the Indian National Anthem at the beginning of every Bengali class, knowing it was written by Tagore. We learned that he was the first Asian and non European to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature for Gitanjali, which translates to Song Offering and again, was an important book in our house. In 1919, he refused the knighthood from the British Crown to protest the Jallianwala Bagh Massacre, where many unarmed Indian Civilians were killed. There was a reverence for his University, Shantiniketan, where my Aunts studied. Tagore could do no wrong in our house.

I am nostalgic for my Bengali roots at this time, as Durga Puja passed, which was always a significant time in our house. My parents would buy us new clothes, like they did for my Dad when he was growing up in Calcutta and we would attend a week long attendance for various Pujas throughout the GTA. When I was very young, the festivities were held at Harbourfront and it was really magical to see the Bengali displays of Ma Durga throughout that space. When my brother was born, we would run around and dance and have fun. It was truly memorable. My Mother always wore the most beautiful saris and had gorgeous blouses that she would make herself, always distinct and stylish. She brought the dazzle to this special time of the year.

My Father kept all of the Durga greeting cards we received throughout the years, and that art has stayed with me. It is very distinctive. When I was growing up, we had a framed Batik print of Ma Durga and recently for my birthday, my husband had it professionally framed. That depiction of Ma Durga, for me, is very special to me. Ma Durga has always remained my comfort and the temple that we take our kids is the Vaishno Devi Mandir always provides me with peace. I always regret that we were not able to get married there (logistics) because it has always been very special to me.

And so now, when I become nostalgic for all things Bengali, I turn on my Spotify Bengali playlist and sing along with songs that I learned as a kid and over 35 years later, still remember the words and melodies. They truly put my soul at peace with their beauty.

But that’s just one Diva’s view.

Tag: Bengali

Red Sari

Bengali Roots