The Posh Poush

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A teenager navigates the fading charm of Bengal’s renowned Pous Mela, while also enduring the quiet loneliness of growing up. As her parents leave for a social obligation, the protagonist wanders through memories and meaning by herself. Between empty book stalls, hand-stitched art, and folk melodies, they confront harsh realities of change, loss, and hope; dreaming of a fair that truly honours culture and community.

I took my phone out and tried to put up the veneer of indifference when my Ma ‘stated’, “We will have to leave for catching up with some of our batchmates once we reach Shantiniketan.” There was an awkward silence. I could intuitively sense her staring at me for an answer.

“Babai?” called out Baba. I look up from the screen, feigning surprise. “Yes. What happened?” Ma repeated, “We won’t be able to make it to the fair with you. Will you be alright?” “Yeah, of course. Can you recall a single episode in the entirety of my life where I haven’t been alright?” I chuckled. Baba’s countenance fought dejection, hurting my heart worse than pins while Ma was unperturbed.

I diverted my mind in no time (being an expert at it with all the experience of encountering unpleasant situations) with Catcher in the Rye. Initially, even I would judge teenagers, deeming them to be insensitive and unnecessarily reclusive. However, the seventeen years of my existence have provided me with enough of a reality check. Now, more often than ever, I find a semblance of Holden Caulfield in me. I agreed with him, without turning a hair, when he said that he thinks adulthood is full of superficiality and phonies. Nothing about growing up enlightens him.

In a way, adulthood is daunting. Scary. Terrifying. Is maturing really about killing innocence? Is growing up only about earning? Do I need to compromise on my individuality so as to fit in amongst others? All in all, doesn’t this mean changing what a person really is?

Well, no wonder everyone is an underrated actor. Oh, how I hate changes—I could really go on ranting about this. In no time, we reached our destination, Bolpur—the town of Kobi Guru, our Rabindranath Thakur. The arrival waded away the dark thoughts that were looming over my mind.

The sky was painted in a beautiful mauve shade, a rare sight to the eyes that had only seen the sky engulfed in dark smog. The air scented sweet and mellow, a rare aroma for the nose that only gets a whiff of sweat-infused humid dust. A euphonious Rabindra Sangeet, “Amaro porano jaha chai… Tumi tai, Tumi tai go...” could be heard playing at a distance. A rare therapeutic musicality to the ears that was attuned to either the loudness or the absolute silence.

I made my way to the bookstores after my parents dropped me near the entrance of the fair. In my opinion, it would be unjust to call it a fair—a terrible understatement. “Pous Mela” is Bengal’s winter carnival. The Nobel Laureate, Rabindranath Tagore, had started it way back in 1843, with the initiative to appreciate the rich culture, art, and food indigenous to Bengal. His exceptional foresight and pragmatism have paved a trajectory for mankind in so many ways indeed. It reflects his vision. Pous Mela is held every year in the month of December, with COVID years being the exceptions. No wonder I was overwhelmed with a strong sense of nostalgia already, as it has been 6 years since I last set foot here. And 6 years ago, things were different. Things weren’t this broken, fragmented. I wasn’t this me. I saw hope in the bad. I was shocked to not see a single customer near the bookshop. Maybe it’s not the peak time of the day, I reassured myself.

I picked up Sukumar Ray’s “Abol Tabol.” He was notable for his humorous ‘literary nonsense’. I find his writing particularly captivating. My love for his books was kindled when I was just a kid. My thakuma (grandmother) read out to me the story “Obak Jolpan” i.e., For a Drop of Water. Good old times, huh?

The night had begun to set in. The tuni bulbs illuminated the dark background. The absence of customers, even now, piqued my interest as much as it raised my concerns. I asked the shopkeeper, “Arey Kaku, is it still too early for the customers to come?”

He gave me a wry smile while replying, “Do you even hope for one to come? Nowadays, everything seems to be saturated with other stuff on the phone. Who has the time for words? And the ones who read can avail books on phones as well. Why would one take the pain of coming here?”

His reply left me with no words. Disheartened, I was. Those words, uttered so simply, raised complex questions for us as a society. I didn’t have the slightest idea of the pain of the ones who couldn’t adjust in the modern era of technology, the era of Amazon, Flipkart, and e-books until now. I bought three books; one of them was about tribals and their literature, and I left the stall.

While tracing my path to nowhere, I thought to myself, “If I were to ever organise a fair, I would definitely request the booksellers to sell those esoteric books of Bengali literature that aren’t sold anywhere else in the world. The genuine book enthusiasts would turn up. Later, I would teach these sellers how to start their business online. In no way can one avoid the alteration, the change? I guess not. One has to adjust, remodulate and move on.”

I moved on and saw the most cherished stalls: food stalls. Myriads of delicacies were being sold. The sweet stalls had Malpua and Jalebi. They were serving it fresh and hot. I had a plate of Chanar Payesh (it’s a dish made of milk and cottage cheese). I hadn’t tasted one like this ever before and had another plate without forethought. I requested a parcel of Til er khaja (thin wafers of flour made of sesame seeds on top) and Patishapta (a dish specifically made in winters; a type of pancake made of coconut filling and jaggery). The other stalls were selling egg rolls, Mughlai parathas, and various pickles unique to Birbhum. If I were to organise a stall, I could definitely never miss the food stalls; I would preserve this integral part of our culture. Food styles and recipes of any place endow it with an identity, a novelty.

I wobbled around, trying my best to walk straight while ravishing the chanar payesh. It was just when I was about to take my next bite that I heard a man call at the top of his voice. I went near the source of the noise and saw a squabble going on.

The man, with respect to my observation, would be in his late 40s. He wore full-rimmed, golden-coloured spectacles, somehow giving out a standoffish demeanour. He held a boy by the fist, which must be his son.

He went on haughtily, “Will you negotiate at 500 rupees? Or I must leave.”

The seller on the other side just stood, clasping his hands together, wearing a ragged sweater with several holes in the sleeves. He looked down and mumbled meekly, “Sir, it takes us 4 months to sew these. I have already reduced the price and set it at 1000. Please understand, sir.”

“What set, huh? Who are you to set? How can a piece of cloth be 1000? This is tantamount to committing thievery out in the open!” The man threw the words, so full of scorn.

The little boy just stared at his father, ill-treating and disregarding another man’s livelihood. 

Finally, the seller gave in. The man smirked victoriously.

The product that the man just called a piece of cloth was not just a piece of cloth. It was the “Kanthar stitch”. And the seller was not just a seller. He was an artist. Kanthar stitch work of Shantiniketan entails hours of painstaking needlework by bare hands. The artists, with their ingenuity, spend innumerable days thinking of the new design and patterns.

The shop had many other artworks displayed: Madhubani, Patachitra artwork (Bihar), and Batik print work (famous in Shantiniketan). I bought a Batik kurta for myself.

Kanthar Stitch

The Batik print of Shantiniketan

Just the adjacent stall had quite a throng, mainly of ladies. The stall was selling handicraft items: showpieces made out of mud, carpets, metal work, and dokra items (tribal art forms). The women sure have a euphoric time shopping for the handmade artistry. Buying a pair of bangles for my mom, I bombarded my gallery with photos of the stalls. I later posted them on Instagram. When I asked for permission to do so from the seller, they were more than elated at the thought of recognition. That truly broke my heart. 

Despite many tries to evade it, I just couldn’t help but think of the incident at the stall of artwork.

We people never hesitate while paying thousands of rupees to the machine-made products, to the manufactured ones. Then what is the cause of denigrating the handmade items? They are symbolic of the artists’ hard work and talent.

The very reason why Bengal is undermined at times is its residents. We ourselves, being born here, fail to save culture and fail to appreciate its glory. All we do is readily inculcate the other side of the world, putting them on a pedestal, stomping over our roots without any qualms. If I were to organise a fair ever, I would demand a fixed price set by the government. Dealing with people of such a shallow, manipulative mentality requires the intervention of the government. 

Just when these thoughts were agonising me, I heard an iktara playing. Its melody enchanted me, taking me to the premise without my realisation.

An old man was playing a Bengali folk song -

“Milan hobe koto din aa? Oh, milan hobe koto din aa? Amar moner manusher o shone… amar moner manush er o shone…”

The melancholic tune was on par with the downcast eyes of the musician. Eyes talk. His attire consisted of a loose pantaloon and a full-sleeved shirt. When he was done with the song, he saw me as the only audience yet gave out a weary smile as his eyes, masked with the darkness of his world, squinted.

I was mortified. The man set out for the fair early in the morning, before the sun had risen, amidst the cold, chilly wind, finally to lay his carpet on the grass and display his musicality to the people. Earn some money, feed his family and return back to do the same the next day as well, with the same smile and the same weariness, only to receive nothing but despondence. And yet he smiled. Smiled.

Source: Dreamstime

To the contrary, I, with every comfort that one could ask for, go about being indignant. How ironic! If I were to organise a fair, I would invite these musicians of Bengal as guests. They are meant for the stage. That would indeed be glamorous!

Then Ma patting my back broke my reverie.

The temperature had dropped significantly. I hugged my windcheater close to my chest, trying to warm myself, in vain. The cold reality was irrevocable. Unalterable. I had to accept it.

I got up in the back seat and buckled my seat belt. It was the first car ride where I had no earphones plugged in. No audiobook is playing. No songs are playing. No eyes reading some book. No finger-scrolling through the feed. There was just a mind, with thoughts that assuage my fears, my doubts, and my misconceptions.

If I were to organise a fair in my city, I would exhaust my potential in presenting the ancient culture and art of Bengal. The very elements that make a Bengali a Bengali. I would establish equality in the fair, where no one’s hard work is milked by a supposedly educated person. I would create a rule that no one could throw plastic and garbage on the ground. If one throws, they would be fined. I would also make sure a stationary washroom is placed, both for males and females, at specific places on the outskirts of the fair. I would create a platform where our culture is preserved and showcased in the appropriate way.

After all, it’s our traditions and culture that anchor us to the roots, as they are stories written by our eminent ancestors and retold, passed on by our forefathers. It’s our traditions and culture that ward off existential crises in our lives, as they are like the mirror, which shows us our past. We have no idea how lucky we are to have been born in this country, India. It’s an amalgamation of cultures. My father had once told me a proverb: rise higher than your voice but lower than your hubris.

That day, I went back with exquisite designs on cloth in my eyes, the delectable aromas emanating off the food stall in my nose, and the mellifluous notes of the iktara.

*Photo Credits: Soumya Sen

About the Author

Shreyashi Samanta

Shreyashi belongs to a small peaceful town called Suri in West Bengal, 200 kms away from the hustle bustle of Kolkata. At present, Shreyashi is pursuing honours in English Literature at the Visva Bharati University in Santiniketan. Her passion lies in crafting plots by herself, and watching movies, especially the ones that are set in a different timeline.