Chanda collection for Durga Puja

We lived in the 60s and 70s in a tiny stretch of Raja Basanta Roy Road that extended from the CESC office on one side to the Bhanga Bari (the accepted name for the old house that had been converted into a slum).  Today, sitting in Bangalore, reading about the Durga Puja celebrations in Kolkata has kindled a lot of memories. One of my earliest memories associated with the Pujas is the tension that would pervade our house in the weeks before Mahalaya. 

Around 7.30 in the evening, while my siblings and I did our homework, we would hear the voices of a group of young men downstairs. As they climbed the stairs to our house, we would look at each other with trepidation. Our father would perk up and reach for a sheaf of papers he had kept ready for just such a visit.  Most of the time, the conversation would start amenably enough and very often end similarly too.

“Uncle – we have come for chanda for the Durga Puja in our para.”

“Ok – which para have you come from?”

“XXXX palli – near XXX Road”.

“Do you know how far from our house that area is? How can you ask for a subscription from me?”

“Uncle, you gave us last year too”.

“Oh really – let me check’”– and my father would start rifling through the sheaf he was holding. He had stored chanda receipts chronologically for the past many years. If he didn’t find a receipt in the group’s name, then he would send them off just by waving the sheaf at them and telling them about he could not afford chanda for new groups as he had obligations to so many groups.

If he found the receipt, then the discussion would be taken up to the next level.

“Ok, fine. Here you are – give me a receipt for 2 rupees”.

‘But Uncle, last time you gave more …..’ and the conversation would peter out as the speaker realised the proof of the amount was in the old receipt in my father’s hand.

Sometimes a more enterprising soul would start to say “But Uncle, shouldn’t you give us more this year” and then be treated to a five-minute diatribe on how salaries had not doubled while expenses had, how many more pujas he was contributing to, how no one was contributing to our navarathri celebrations etc etc. Once in a while the group would mention that they were celebrating their silver jubiliee. Promptly my father would pick up a receipt to show them how he had given them 5/- two years ago on their silver jubilee.  The young men would go away with 2/-, exhausted by the sheer force of my father’s arguments.  As Mahalaya neared, more and more groups would wend their way to our house and the conversation would follow the same set pattern. 

Most of the  time, the men left after exchanging pleasantries, but very often one upstart would make an offensive statement either about our being Madrasis in ‘their’ State or about us being stingy and that would start the yelling. My father would roar in anger and ask them to get out. The men would leave, threatening to deal with any of us who dared to step into their para in the next few days.  During this entire episode, my pre-teenage elder brother would quietly stay inside. An active participant in all the cricket matches that happened on the streets, he did not want these ‘dadas’ to know that he lived in this house.  In spite of being careful, I am sure he still felt the repercussions when he went out to play.   I know we went out fearfully for the next couple of days, sure that some young man was waiting to beat up my father for not giving him 2/-.