At a pandal near you: Who's dressed for whom? Who's being watched?

London: Pujo and Pujo fashion go hand in hand. One is spiritual, the other material, but never say the twain shan't meet. They meet every year, usually in front of the goddess, just as somebody is checking whether her blouse is sitting properly at the back.

Welcome to the Pujo pandal. Which pandal? It hardly matters. From my childhood in Calcutta to Bombay and various Asian and European cities, I have found Durga Pujo remarkably consistent. The location changes, the committee does not.

Festivities begin on Shoshthi (which fell this year on Friday) and end with red-bordered saris and shidoor khela (sindoor play) on Dashami (this Tuesday). There is less waist-gyrating than Devdas and Parineeta would suggest. Mostly, women are trying not to get vermilion on a sari and incur a dry cleaner's bill.


As a child, I admired the organisers' pleated ribbon badges. My brother wanted one. It resembled a prize from a modest flower show. But pin it to a white kurta and suddenly you could tell grown men where to put the chairs. The badge was the accessory. Power was the outfit.

Eventually, women joined the committee. Now both sexes could argue about the microphone. The mic addicts announced instructions for bhog with divine authority: queue properly, everyone will be fed, don't take seconds.

For the rest of us, those 5 days meant new clothes. The grand lady appeared in 'gorod' or Benarasi, thick gold bangles, a sunrise-sized bindi, and jewellery released from the vault for its annual public appearance. Her counterpart wore a dhoti, a crisp panjabi - yes, the kurta is called a 'panjabi' in Bengal (but is a kurta in Punjab called a 'bengali'?) - gold buttons, and enough astrological rings on his fingers to suggest several planets were under active management. Add a maduli (amulet), and the universe had no option but to cooperate.

This was the 'bonedi' - upper class - look. But there was another classic figure: the aspiring achiever. You could not always tell from his clothes. You could tell from his cigarette.

For most of the year, he bought a mid-level brand. For these 5 days, he offered a much posher brand to everyone in the paara (neighbourhood) with the generous air of a man distributing promotions at the bank. He had arrived, and if you had somehow missed the announcement, he would offer you another cigarette.

Then there was the 'mod' girl: denim, unapproved piercing, perhaps tattoos, smoking with the boys. The boys smoked unnoticed. The girl became a topic of discussion lasting until Lakshmi Pujo.

Bollywood legitimised ghagra-cholis, plunging blouse backs, and exposed midriffs. The kakimas who criticised the young found themselves criticised in return. Some became Mrs PNPC - a specialist in 'PoroNinda PoroChorcha,' literally People Slander, People Study, or the critical appreciation of the lives of others - performing their duties without a badge.

The young developed uniforms while denying any interest in them: traditional for Ashtami (the biggest and 3rd day of the 5-day festival), adventurous for Navami. The girls also needed an outfit that could survive heat, rain, crowds, and photographs from below. Boys wore a panjabi and accepted compliments as though they had personally revived handloom.

Then came camera phones. A sari could now be admired by hundreds, including a cousin in Vienna demanding shopping details. The pandal became a location shoot, with Ma a.k.a. Ma Durga artistically blurred behind somebody's carefully arranged pallu.

I cannot pretend innocence. I have wondered whether my sari would show up against a pandal. Even when you believe you are above Pujo fashion, you are generally only waiting for better lighting.

The rebellious girl may now run the cultural programme. The cigarette man may today explain single malt in singular detail. The signals remain. Who is dressed for whom? Who is being watched? Who has quietly become important?

Amid the posing, judging and adjusting, the dhaak begins. People turn towards the goddess. Then a familiar voice says, 'Beautiful sari. Kotha theke kinli rey? (Where did you buy it from?)'