The city of Kolkata was getting dressed with fairy lights, bamboo pandals, hoardings from advertisers, fluorescent store fronts and all the other ingredients of festivity. The by lanes of Gariahat, New Market were packed with people finishing their last minute purchases for pujo. Amidst this fervor of pujo preparations to welcome Ma Durga, I was packing my bags to leave Kolkata. This feeling was like getting a ticket to a show, entering the theater, seeing the stage and then having to leave before the curtain rises. To get out of this mood of ” pujo te thakbo na” ( A Bengali’s biggest FOMO ) I plan to seep in some more pujo flavour into my heart. The best place to absorb the pre pujo vibes is a visit to Kumortuli or so I thought ignorantly. It is actually the only place to understand Durga pujo in its truest and barest form from inception.

The Green Room of Bengal’s biggest religious, spiritual and cultural show is called Kumortuli. In Bangla, Kumor is the person who gives shape to clay and Tuli is a place where people live as a small community. In the by lanes of north Kolkata lives the Kumors (the skillful artisans of Bengal ) and thus the place gets its name, Kumortuli. Long before autumn sets in , long before the Shiuli blooms or kash phul sways in abundance of joy, turning marshy lands into a bed of fluffy white and gold, the Kumors of Kumortuli start kneading clay. Their deft hands tenderly mould clay into shape and form, creating the Pratima ( the idol ) and within days mere clay becomes our Goddess.

In the Green Rooms of real life theater , the makeup artists dress up actors. With fresh paint on their face the actors play their part on stage. They create a world of make belief for us, the audience. Almost allegorically in the amazing, unsung Green Room of Kumortuli the Kumors paint the God’s idols and prepare them to play their part on the stage called Pujo Mandap. We the audience, in both the theater and the Puja Mandap want the same thing. We want an escape route from reality, to suspend time in an hour glass . We want to forget our pains and failures, our trivial joys and accomplishments. All we want is to gaze at the stage where the drama unfolds. The unfolding drama slowly immerses our senses. We cling on to our belief in the unbelievable for those fleeting few hours or days.

With all these thoughts knocking in my mind I step into the muddy, narrow lanes of Kumortuli. I stop transfixed in front of the men at work. Hours of bending painfully to give the Gods a human form, to get the perfect stroke of brush on each protima, to bring that hint of a smile on the Goddesses’ face, to fill with light and depth those soul searching eyes, all of this and more is a craft indeed . But the surrealism of this place engulfs me. Who is the creator ? One silent question fills my thoughts but not as silently as it rose. What envelopes the surroundings of Kumortuli is not a dreamer’s paradise. We associate inspiration and creativity with leisure, beauty and calm. Both very scarce commodities when life’s challenges are about survival. Living under such grappling conditions of existence & chaos and yet creating this abundance of beauty, is no small feat.

The artisans of Kumortuli are simple, poor, seasonal wage earners. Their homes and studios (quite a fancy word for such work place) reflect the simplicity and poverty of its dwellers. The walls of the houses had not seen paint in years, though their rooms had paint jars in plenty. The electrical wires overhead were all tangled up in a mess but magically supplied electricity in an untangled manner. I thought to myself that true genius thus resides in this maze of lanes and by lanes. They hide their struggles in the sheer grit of perseverance and brilliance of creativity. Their challenges are many but their zeal overpowers those challenges. The rain Gods don’t make their life easy, drying clay and paint is difficult in wet weather. Like helmets the unfinished clay heads of idols are hung here and there, waiting for a peep of sunshine from heaven ! Within those rain soaked walls of their dwellings big pedestal fans run noisily drying the clay idols. It is not easy to dampen the spirit of these artisans who have braved the odyssey of life.

The Kumors are not celebrated everyday, but the yearly recognition of their craft, the coverage from news channels and print media gives them some borrowed time of celebrity status. Their hand to mouth existence does bring to mind some pertinent questions, but nothing so strong that cannot be forgotten soon by the sheer dazzle of the festivities!

The constant stream of visitors, tourists and locals alike, capturing the images, colors, and work-in-progress moments brings a smile on the faces of these simple but talented artists. Ask them once, and they willingly allow you to take pictures. They are ready to chat with you during a smoke (biri) break before resuming God making ! After posing for the camera they get back to their work with undivided attention. I come back home filled with images captured both in my mind and in my camera. With a silent salute to the kumors of kumortuli I pen down my thoughts. Feelings of a strange sense of pathos and admiration mingles together and melts my heart softly. I feel humbled to be a witness to this grand world of creation. I make a promise to myself to keep going back to Kumortuli again and again.

In the years to come after this , when ever I will stand in front of Ma Durga with folded hands and chant ” Rupam Dehi, Jasho Dehi ” my mind will always pause and think of the unseen ” Rupam Dehi “, The Kumors of Kumortuli.