Brian Mendonca
I made my way recently to the Kharedi Yatra exhibition at the oratory of Don Bosco, Panaji, curious as to what I would come across.
Beside the kitchen appliances, sofa sets, fitness training equipment, curtains and sandalwood incense sticks, I spotted two ladies sitting in a stall. What struck me was the verve with which one of them was assiduously embroidering a bag.
I stepped up to them and enquired about the bags hung on display. The lady whose name was Subhra explained that the bags were made of khadi. They were a favourite of students in Kolkata. As Samayeta Bal notes, in Bengal’s revolutionary history wearing khadi was a form of protest against the empire.
Subhra said they were Bengalis settled in Goa. Her husband works at Patto, but she does these bags because she likes it. Priced at Rs.200 a piece, I picked up three for gifting.
Subhra shared that she was into Rabindra Sangeet as well. I promptly asked her to sing for me. ‘Now?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Yes,’ I said firmly. Regaining her composure she sang the first two lines of Ekla Chalo Re by Tagore (1861-1941).
Subhra reminded me of Tham’ma, the school-teacher, grandmother in ‘Shadow Lines’ (1988) by Amitav Ghosh. Displaced from Dhaka, Tham’ma returns to Dhaka and is caught in the riots in 1959. She fiercely preserves her identity, and her allegiance to the freedom struggle in Kolkata.
Many of the vendors in the stalls were dressed up to make an impression on the buyers. Subhra had a beautiful handwoven ochre sari with a bronze necklace which looked like a medallion.
Shirley made cone puppets and soft toys which were a delight for kids. I picked up a fish for Rs. 150.
Both the ladies were allotted space in the same stall. They had good understanding between them keeping to one half of the space. Shirley was content to watch the visitors pass by making small talk with those whom she knew. There was a resilience that I admired in them. In some ways they personified the inspiring song in Bangla, ‘Ekla Chalo Re.’ (Walk alone, if you must)
In a short space of time we had bridged cultures and had become friends. It seemed the river Hooghly, in Kolkata – where I once wrote my poem ‘Down by the Hooghly’, 20 years ago – and the Mandovi had merged.
(The writer is a professor at Carmel College, Nuvem)
