Probashi’r Aasha by Tapan K Chakrabarty

I am a Bengali, more accurately a Probaashi Bengali, one who has lived (born as well) away from his native land of origin. I am, by my family roots, a Baangal_ a native of East Bengal_ a place that was violently partitioned off in 1947 (more than a decade before I was born) from mainland India; to be named East-Pakistan first and then later (little over a decade after I was born) re-named Bangladesh. Yes, I am a second generation EBDP/EPDP (‘East Bengal Displaced Person’/’East Pakistan Displaced Person’) who has merely heard of the land of his ancestors but never had the good fortune to visit it till date, and I have already crossed the threshold of becoming a senior citizen.

My grandparents were forced to migrate out of their native land and were made to wander all over the not-so-familiar mainland India (Hindustan), in search of a perch. With heavy hearts & with no say in the matter, they rode the waves of the time only to scatter and accept the disintegration of their once closely-knit joint family to form dis-jointed nuclear families, which gradually over a generation & a half lost touch with one another.

I was born & brought up in Lucknow, the Nawabi capital of the erstwhile Awadh, far away from the Bengal that elders in the family forever spoke fondly of. Perhaps I was a fair exchange for the last Nawab of Awadh whom the British forced to migrate in the exact opposite way. True to most Probaashi Bengali families, we spoke an urban form of the Bengali language as a normal practice inside our homes. Probably the first words/phrases I heard immediately after my birth were from this form of the Bengali language, and that naturally became my Mother Tongue_ my ‘first language’ that still inhabits the deep crevices of my subconscious mind. I even managed to learn to read & write the Bengali script a bit, but not with any claim to proficiency beyond a basic ability to recognize the printed word.

The important underline in this narrative is that the moment I stepped out of my house onto the galees, maidaans, bazaars of Lucknow, I was surrounded by the sounds of Awadhi and Hindi languages, whose words, phrases & nuances I picked up faster than those of my own Mother Tongue. So much so that I am often told that my Bengali tends to sound much like Hindi. God knows what that really means though I mutely accept each such accusation.

The duality was distinct and my Mother Tongue became such a private affair that I was reluctant to speak (or hear) even a word of it outside my house. It was as if the Bengali language was for the interiors of my home and shared (in absolute privacy) only with my close family members. The Hindi language, on the other hand, was for my exterior world (the public domain) and my real connection with everyone other than my family members_ neighbors, friends, shopkeepers, service providers and even persons who entered the interiors of our house for short-time engagements (the mehri, the dhobi etc).

I could never imagine a conversation in my Mother Tongue with a shopkeeper, a hawker or a rickshaw-puller; until as late as a young teenager when I spent a few days in Kolkata to attend a wedding in the extended family. For the first time I heard my hitherto private Mother Tongue being abundantly used in the outside public domain. It felt rather strange and it took me a while to accept the truth of the West-Bengal’s outside-the-house reality. The experience of this exposure was mind blowing and intriguing. I was enchanted. Now, my reluctance to hear or speak my Mother Tongue outside the house was reasonably reduced, even if the opportunity to sustain such a practice was rather short-lived.

--*--

Several years later, when I moved from Lucknow to Delhi for my college education, I once again stumbled upon a similar and intriguing experience. This time it was Chittaranjan Park (Chitto-Park or Chit’Park as it was often referred to)_ a distinct mono-lingual island within the vast metro settlement of Hindi predominance (with a Punjabi or a Haryanvi tilt of lilt). 

My ‘local guardians’, my Uncle’s family_ yes, one of those several scattered and now disjointed nuclear family units of our once upon a time “Chakraborti-Paada” of Village Beitka (I hope I got it right)_ owned a residence in this ‘Bangaali Kalony’ of Saaddi-Dilli. It was this Kaka-Baari where I first stepped in, bag & baggage, when I landed in the capital of the biggest democracy. So, that was my first surprise experience of CR-Park and the heady feeling lingers till this day even after the passing of over four decades.

Aaah_ Chittaranjan Park.!

Never before did I see such a prolific fish market; definitely not with so many varieties of ‘maachh’_ those that I, even till this day, cannot identify all but whose names I have heard from my parents or grandparents along with amazing stories woven around fish, fishing & fish-eating. In the same market I also found ‘haanser-deem’_ duck-eggs that my ‘didi-ma’ (who never relished moorgir-deem) yearned for and whose availability was rare in the City of Nawabs. 

Never before did I see so many sweet-shops laden with ‘singaara’ and so many types of ‘mishti’ (including the ‘doi’)_ those that I still struggle to identify or specify but whose names (along with many related anecdotes) I have heard in my childhood from my grand-parents. Even other edible stuff regularly dispensed by hawkers; jhaal-moori, ghugni, chop/cutlet and what have you; all had the same effect on me_ heard before but seen or tasted only now after coming to this mini-Bengal of South Delhi.

Never before did I see so many football enthusiasts (of all shapes & sizes, all age groups, all possible shirt/jersey colors, bare-foot or shod) dribbling & passing the ball(s) in small groups, jostling for space and dotting open spaces across the length and breadth of CR-Park. And of course the ubiquitous carom-boards at the local markets where the visibly serious players were surrounded by a motely crowd of well informed audience. The intense micro-environment of deep breaths & quiet whispers and the ‘woody’ sounds made by the coins striking the board’s edges were mesmerizing.

Never before did I see so many hawkers selling such variety of fruits/vegetables_ thor, mochaa, pui-daata (and many more)_ whose descriptions I have heard from my parents & grand-parents but probably seen a rare few times only when some Bengali acquaintance victoriously shared her/his spoils on return from a rare visit to some part of far away West-Bengal. East-Bengal remained forever out of bounds.

I can surely go on and on with my “never before did I..” rants, but the idea here is to lay emphasis on the fact that CR-Park meant (and continues to mean) a lot to the first/second generation of Probaashi Bengalis. They are those who have a weak/little contact with West-Bengal (Poschim Bango) and only a mythical connection with East-Bengal (Purbo Bango).

--*--

No, I do not reside in CR-Park and I never did so (never more than a few days/weeks a few times at my Uncle’s residence in A-block) in my 40+ years of being in Delhi NCR. I have always been a visitor, but a frequent one at that as I once lived right across the ‘outer ring road’ (Ho Chi Min Marg) for over 15 years and still try to keep in touch most week-ends (now all the way from Noida). I have seen CR-Park develop, grow & evolve into its present avataar, especially as I see it through the lens of an Architect/Urban-Designer while continuing to retain a certain feeling of nostalgia that I personally find hard to avoid.

When I first set my foot in CR-Park (late 1970s), it was a quaint settlement, cheerful and walkable. The sound of Bengali talk and the smell of Bengali cooking were integral to the sensory experiences. Most houses were single-storied (only a few went beyond the first-floor ‘mumty’) with the setback spaces being legally accurate and softly landscaped with tell-tailed shrubs (Jobaa, Shiyuli etc) and a tiny patch of a ‘lawn’. Automobiles, mostly ‘Fiat Padmini Premier’, were few and the sector-level parks were good gathering spaces and definitely well used. 

The markets (market#1 and market#2) were densely populated and well visited even though the shops were mere shacks, put together informally and creating an environment that was visually chaotic and physically a tad filthy. The slightest bit of rain played havoc with the unpaved walking spaces as drainage was nobody’s business and one could only thank mother nature that Delhi’s ‘rainy season’ (Borsha-kaal) was hardly anything more than an excuse in the annual calendar.

Around the 90’s one witnessed CR-Park develop into a formidable Bengali colony as the market places evolved and many of the houses rose to occupy the upper floor/s to welcome tenants who were eager to be a part of this island of Bengali community & culture. The increase in the numbers of parked vehicles (2-wheelers and 4-wheelers) complimented the increase in the human population and was amply supported by the ‘Maruti’ wave even though most Bengali families had an affinity for the good old Fiat-gaadi. The flourishing Bengali culture by now was further epitomized by the pristine precinct of the Kaali-Mandir as an important socio-religious landmark. The number of Durga-Pujo events increased and several pandaals/sites attained city level significance. CR-Park was now a proud member of the South Delhi’s urban geography & social landscape.

The turn of the century brought with it the characteristics of the times as the Builders’ guild penetrated the colony. Slowly but steadily, plot-by-plot, the tiny personalized houses gave way to impersonal tiny towers of expensive micro-apartments, where certain number of floors were regularly thrown open to new owners and inhabitants, not necessarily having any links with the original group of EBDP/EPDP crowd. The sudden availability of ‘Surmai’ fish, along with the usual fare in the crowded fish markets, quietly announced the change that was creeping in. The over-crowded Durga-Pujo pandaals indicated that CR-Park was no more an exclusive island of and for the Bengali community alone; though it continues to remain an environment nurtured and celebrated by the Bengali community no doubt.

Kaali-Mandir and Durga-Pujo, the twin pillars of Bengali identity, have its ominous presence in CR-Park. The Kaali-Mandir precinct is amazing. Quite unlike the usual state of North-Indian temple sites that are messy and crowded, the CR-Park Kaali-Mandir is a neat sight. Yes, I could not resist myself walking up to the Mandir’s office and ask for a Life-membership, and to my utter delight I was granted one without too much of a fuss. 

The various Durga-Pujo events too, once upon a time, were a wonderful experience. During those 5-days of Shaarodiya-Utsob, CR-Park was the place to inhabit. Everything felt simply amazing, especially for born Probaashi’s like me. I am sure the general euphoria is still in place, but the commercialization is many folds over. The crowd in CR-Park now seems to be neck-to-neck in competition with the crowd at the 15-day ‘annual trade-fair’ at Pragati-Maidan. It is now, especially in the evenings, a challenge even to get inside a pujo-pandaal and the Ashtomi-eve is impossible. The last couple of years has seen me reluctantly skip CR-Park altogether during Durga-Pujo evenings. But, what to do.?

--*--

The one feature that I dearly miss in CR-Park now is the absence of local/city bus services. When I first came to Delhi and CR-Park there were a number of buses that plied through the colony. A few remnants of the ‘DTC bus-shelters’ littered on the main street of the colony still stand witness to those bygone days. Besides the several bus-routes that passed through the colony there was one particular bus route (#432) that originated/terminated in the heart of the colony_ Market#1 to be precise. It was good to see (and be a part of) people gathering at the specific spot; greeting, chatting, nibbling, smoking and waiting for the bus to arrive from and/or depart towards Old Delhi; right upto 10:00pm (or so) at night. Now there are no more buses in most Delhi colonies and CR-Park is no exception. The current times are of the Metro-rail and the Metro-city environment where people on foot find themselves fighting for space with auto/e-rickshaws, hawkers, manholes and light-poles.

I also miss the quality and accessibility of the many internal residential streets within CR-Park. I have spent hours walking and bicycling on these streets/lanes during week-ends and holidays. Today these streets are devoid of children playing and elders walking along. The width of these streets are narrowed down by aisle-parked cars which also stay put during nights as there’s little opportunity to park vehicles inside the house-hold compounds. This situation has now prompted the practice of gated-streets and some of these gates remain shut round the clock creating cul-de-sacs that were earlier absent. Cul-de-sacs, or dead-end streets, are naturally not very friendly to wandering, casual, un-purposeful and aimless pedestrians and cyclists; as they intentionally promote a micro-community cooperative lifestyle seeking privacy in the garb of safety & security. There is, perhaps, a slight shift in the overall sense of warmth in these street spaces, which is quite in keeping with current times when it is obviously cool to be cold.

I wonder if the return of the Savitri Cinema Hall, after a long hiatus, will ever again entice couples & families to a lazy walk-in visit for an impromptu late-night or mid-afternoon movie show. I await and hope for that resurgence of the paadaa-ness of the ‘Mini Calcutta’ (Kolkata.?) of Delhi. The new born senior citizen in me does believe in miracles.