(ही पोस्ट मराठीत इथं वाचता येईल.)
Our stay in Kolkata was coming to an end. Whenever I am in Kolkata, a visit to Dakshineshwar Temple and Belur Math is a must for me. We had planned to visit both on the last day of our trip. However, due to time constraints, Belur Math had to be dropped from the itinerary.
I remember visiting Dakshineshwar sometime around 1985. Strangely, what I remember most from that visit is a priest sitting inside one of the Shiva temples and reading a newspaper. I don't remember the temple being particularly large, nor do I remember any queues or crowds. This time, however, as we entered the temple complex, I realised how spacious it actually was. Clearly, my memory of the earlier visit wasn't very reliable.
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| A part of the main temple as seen from outside |
We reached Dakshineshwar around 2.30 in the afternoon, only to discover that the temple would reopen only at 3 p.m. We had no idea that it remained closed for a while in the afternoon. So we walked down to the ghat and sat there for some time.
The Ganga was only moderately clean—as expected.
No matter how polluted the water is, the presence of the Ganga is always comforting. There was a gentle breeze. Across the river, Kolkata stretched along the opposite bank. A bridge in the distance. People taking a holy dip. Children and women searching for coins thrown into the river by devotees. Vendors selling small plastic bottles for those wanting to carry Ganga water home.
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| On the banks of Hooghly (Ganga) river |
And through all this, without being bothered by people, the river flowed quietly.
Watching its broad and unhurried flow, I was reminded once again of how temporary our joys and sorrows really are. The ancient bond between our rivers and our people has survived the passage of time. Sitting on the banks of the Ganga, I could still feel it within me.
A lady overheard Pratiksha and me speaking in Marathi and started talking to us. Since she was speaking in Marathi too, I assumed she was another tourist from Maharashtra.
She wasn't.
She worked with the cooperative credit society of a paramilitary force. ("Bank" was the word she used. I had never heard of such a bank before. Later, when I searched online, I realised that it was not a public sector bank but an internal cooperative society for the personnel of that force.) Her husband too was a senior officer in the same force. They had been in Kolkata for the last seven years, and she visited Dakshineshwar regularly. She volunteered a lot of personal information without my asking. It seems that when people meet someone speaking their own language far away from home, they instinctively open up.
She stayed with us, explaining where to leave our footwear, where to deposit our bags, and how the queue system worked. She told us that there were three queues leading to the sanctum, and that the middle queue offered the best view of the deity. We joined that queue with her.
For the next two-and-a-half hours, we stood together and chatted.
From our conversation, I gathered that she belonged to a Kannada-Marathi Brahmin family. She was a strict vegetarian and couldn't quite understand the Bengali love for fish. "It's dirty everywhere," she said repeatedly. There was a note of complaint in much of what she said.
Dakshineshwar Kali Temple
The temple was peaceful. As the afternoon wore on, the breeze from the Ganga became even more pleasant. People stood quietly in the queues. Since mobile phones had to be deposited outside, there were no reels, no phone calls, no selfies. The queue moved very slowly, but no one seemed impatient.
Dakshineshwar Kali Temple occupies a special place in the lives of Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa and Swami Vivekananda. It was founded by Rani Rashmoni, a wealthy zamindar from Janbazar. Since she belonged to a community that was considered socially inferior by the standards of nineteenth-century Bengal, there was considerable opposition to the temple. Many believed that upper-caste Brahmins would refuse to perform worship in a temple built by her. Ignoring these objections, Rani Rashmoni completed the temple in 1855. Sri Ramakrishna later became its chief priest, and the rest, as they say, is history.
The temple is a fine example of Bengal's traditional Navaratna style of temple architecture, with its nine spires rising above a high plinth. The main temple stands in front of a large courtyard. Along the ghat on the Hooghly are twelve identical Shiva temples built in a single row. These smaller temples follow the traditional Atchala style of Bengal architecture. Built with red bricks and white lime plaster, the complex has an unusual combination of simplicity and grandeur.
Pratiksha, who is an architect, had carried a small sketchbook and a pen in my sling bag. Standing in the queue, she took them out and began sketching the temple. Her sketch will give you a better idea of the temple's exterior than any description I can write.
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| Pratiksha's sketch of the main temple, drawn while standing in the queue |
Two young foreigners were standing ahead of me in the queue. One was from the United States and the other from Greece. The American had been living at Sri Ramana Maharshi's Ashram in Tiruvannamalai for the last few years. Since I had visited the ashram a few years ago, we naturally exchanged memories. From there the conversation wandered to Puducherry, Kanyakumari, Varanasi, Allahabad, Rameswaram and several other places. I came away with the impression that the American knew more about India's pilgrimage centres than I did. This was the Greek visitor's first trip to India, and the American seemed to be playing the role of his guide. Both of them quietly absorbed the atmosphere of the temple.
After standing in the queue for nearly two and a half hours, we finally had our one-minute darshan of Kali and came out.
It is difficult to describe that moment in words.
I am not a particularly religious person. Yet I stood happily in that queue for nearly three hours. I realised that I do not visit temples merely to see an idol or even a deity. For me, darshan is something much larger. It is a moment of connecting with the cultural memory that has accumulated at such places over hundreds of years. The journey is really for that one brief moment of connection.
Perhaps that is why it remains beyond words.
The second half of the day was reserved for a performance of Meghnad Badh Kavya. We left Dakshineshwar and headed towards Girish Manch. It was a journey from the world of religion to the world of theatre.
Girish Manch
Located in the historic neighbourhood of Baghbazar, Girish Manch is one of the important centres of Bengali theatre. The auditorium is named after Girish Chandra Ghosh, the celebrated playwright, actor and director who is regarded as one of the pioneers of modern Bengali theatre. I was pleased to learn that this Girish was none other than the disciple of Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa. Somehow, it made the journey from Dakshineshwar to Girish Manch feel even more meaningful. The auditorium hosts both commercial and experimental theatre.
Girish Chandra Ghosh was once an atheist and struggled with alcoholism. His life changed completely after he came into contact with Sri Ramakrishna. Sri Sri Ramakrishna Kathamrita, written by Mahendranath Gupta under the pen name 'M', beautifully captures the relationship between the two. Girish Chandra wrote and staged several memorable plays, including Buddhadev Charit, Bilwamangal and Tapasya. He was also very close to Swami Vivekananda.
Seen in this context, travelling from Dakshineshwar to Girish Manch did not feel like moving from a religious space to a secular one. It felt like continuing the same cultural journey.
Meghnad Badh Kavya and Gautam Halder
We had come to Girish Manch to watch a stage adaptation of Meghnad Badh Kavya, the epic poem written by Michael Madhusudan Dutt (1824–1873). Published in 1861, the poem is more than 150 years old. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that tickets priced at ₹1,000 had sold out almost immediately for a performance based on such a classic work. Fortunately our friends had booked our tickets in advance.In the auditorium two persons were arguing loudly. It turned out that the theatre had issued the same seat number to both of them. There was some animated discussion before other people intervened to find alternative seat for one of them. Order was restored within a few minutes, and the performance began. This little experience reminded me of my own city.
The performance was presented by Gautam Halder, one of Bengal's most respected theatre personalities. Born in 1963, he is an actor, director, singer and dancer. Over the last three decades, he has performed Meghnad Badh Kavya hundreds of times, both in India and abroad.
The production is almost a one-man performance. A few musicians and singers sat on the stage, providing music and chorus. But for nearly two-and-a-half hours, the stage belonged entirely to Gautam Halder.
The performance was in Bengali. I asked the lady sitting next to me to explain the story whenever possible. That was when I realised that even she found the language difficult. The poem is written in classical Bengali, which is quite different from the language spoken today. She confidently told me that the opening scene described the death of Meghnad. In reality, Meghnad's death came much later in the performance. The story was not easy to follow at first, but gradually it began to unfold.
Meghnad Badh Kavya is regarded as one of the milestones of Bengali literature. Though based on the Ramayana, it offers a completely different perspective. Madhusudan Dutt portrays Ravana as a noble, dignified and unfortunate king, while Meghnad (Indrajit) emerges as a heroic warrior who sacrifices his life for his country. At the same time, the poet also points out the moral limitations and mistakes of Rama and Lakshmana. Divided into nine cantos, the poem is remarkable for its powerful blend of heroism, tragedy and fury. It was also the first successful use of blank verse in Bengali literature, freeing Bengali poetry from the constraints of rhyme. The language of the poem is highly Sanskritised, grand and classical.
Gautam Halder's physical and vocal performance was extraordinary. Without changing costumes and using nothing more than a simple uttariya draped over his shoulders, he transformed himself from one character to another within seconds. One moment he was the fierce Ravana; the next, the grief-stricken Mandodari or the devoted Pramila.
Fear, anger, sorrow, joy, love, hatred, contempt and serenity—he expressed every emotion with equal conviction. Ravana, Mandodari, Sita, Lakshmana, Meghnad, Vibhishana and Rama all came alive through his performance. In one scene, his eyes and body conveyed the violence and intensity of war; in the next, a slight bend of his shoulders captured Ravana's defeat and helplessness.
I did not understand every word of Bengali. But the language of great acting needs no translation.
I thoroughly enjoyed the performance.
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It was time to leave BoShanKo.
The mud house in Bolpur. Tagore's Santiniketan. The history of Kolkata. The devotion at Dakshineshwar. Meghnad coming alive on stage.
Over these eight days, I saw many shades of Bengal. Like the Ganga, Bengal too has many invisible currents. I could understand some of them. Some I merely sensed.
I had come as a visitor. Sitting quietly in Bengal's courtyard and listening to its stories, I had, for a little while, become a part of it.
