The Botomul from afar

Ironically, I remember how much coaxing it took to wake me up the first time I went. But since that time, more than 10 years ago, I hadn't missed it once.

Funnily enough, on the way to Ramna, it didn't feel like we were celebrating our new year. No festoons, no posters, no buildings decorated (as is done on December 31st). However, from Sheraton hotel onwards, it was a different world altogether.

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I don't think I have seen so many people at one place except at the political rallies! Flowers, balloons, masks, pink cotton candy, splashes of colour everywhere, snake charmers, street vendors, people selling cool glasses of lassi, sugarcane juice, it was a hundred-year of our culture on one street. As we pushed through, it was a picture of uniformity in diversity -- people of all ages, religion, walks of life, women dressed in white and wearing red and beli ful, and men in light coloured panjabis.

For all of us the first stop would of course be the Botomul. The loud speakers at botomul were never the greatest. But as long as you caught the snippets of the familiar lyrics, the pakhwaj , the mridongom , you couldn't help feel the vibrancy in the air. Even at 6 in the morning, the sitting area would be crammed, and there would be a few hundred more in the shades having that thick tea in the earthen mugs, or enjoying the steaming bhapa pithas. And your kind is got used to the creaking of the nagardola in the background -- two people tugging at the highly suspicious wooden structure and a dozen people screaming in delight each time it made one more successful turn. There would naturally be the vendors at every corner, the smart ones picking out the romantic couples and selling them anything from flowers to kodmas. The most popular item would however be that pink dugdugi, and anyone and everyone would naturally buy it for ten takas and happily play it, letting out bursts of laughter at the resulting cachophony.

As soon as Chhayanaut's programme would draw to a close, there would be a mad rush to grab some breakfast. Parathas, luchi, vegetables, thick curry, gillapis sizzling invitingly in the frying pans, or even an early panta bhat, bhortas and Ilish. This was the day for trying all the dishes and there would never be a lack of enthusiasts.

Out of Ramna, there would be the stages set up on roadsides, on trucks and pavements all playing different types of songs. As you walk along the road, it would be like a walk from one world to the other as gonoshongeet slowly diffused into lalon that in turn slowly diffused into baul. The bauls I loved the most. Clad in bright orange, the dotara in their hands they never failed to excite the crowd with their vigorous dance in tune with the thumping beat of drums.

By this time, people would be gathering at the Arts College for the procession. Even if you have never been to the campus, you could tell that this was the Institute of Fine Arts. A huge paper mach figure waiting to be carried out, people wearing the bright masks, head gear, and of course, your face would be painted. And at the gates would wait the horse carriages, the floats, the band party, people dressed in a particular theme -- a traditional bridal party, farmers, folk singers and jatra characters. Some, already drained from the morning's event, would happily be stretched on the lawns, engaged in frivolous addas. With the sun now fully up, the ice cream and especially the kulfi sellers would be the busiest. Prices are easily doubled, but there has been never a short queue.

What I am driving at is, despite the heat, the crowd, the long walk from stage to stage, the dust, nothing would seem to wipe that glean from people's eyes. It's almost a celebration of who we are, and how uniquely we celebrate our new year, different from other nationalities the world over. How common is it, for instance, to celebrate the new year with the sunrise instead of the middle of the night?

For the last couple of years there has naturally been a change. I remember how the bomb exploded some rows from where I was standing, and that sickening feeling will haunt us forever. Now there are as many plain clothes police as there are genuine audiences. Parents warn us of not joining in the rally. Instead of one huge rally, there would be many different ones depending on which cultural organisation you belong to. Interestingly there are also more video cameras around, people filming every nook and corner, as if realising that they are recording live history.

But happily enough the celebrations have also spread to other parts of the city outside the campus. No longer is the campus like an island unto itself. There would be week-long melas fairs, mina bazaars and shows. And it's encouraging to see how the rock bands are popularising traditional folk music. And there are a lot more shops other than Aarong that are now selling local handicrafts. Even the traditional potua is now the in-thing.

Now a good thousand miles from Botomul, the best that I can do is playback those wonderful images of nobo borsho. But for all of you who can give it a go waking up an extra three hours early and be one with the crowd it's there live! One thing is for certain no matter which part of the world you are in, no matter how many years into the future you look, the experience of connecting to your roots, is one memory that will last a lifetime.

Aziz Mallick is a Corporate Finance Analyst, J P Morgan Chase, London.