It is that time of year when the Bangalees celebrate their heritage and, through that celebration, assesses their place in the universal scheme of things.
For the Bangalees, like millions of others across the globe, have a claim on history based on the cultural tradition their ancestors shaped for them, one that they renew annually through Baishakh. There are the currents and cross-currents of history which have given Baishakh roundness of a throbbing sort. It is these underpinnings of the season, indeed the beginning of a new year, that the Bangalees remember today.
There is the essential point of reference that was Akbar. The haal khata, the closing off of a year just ended and the commencement of a new one, a stocktaking of crops, indeed of productivity are the underpinnings we speak of.
There is, then, about Baishakh something of the pastoral. In that larger sense of the meaning — and quite removed from the formalities attendant on its advent in these largely urban times — it is the village, that timelessness of agrarian life that Baishakh recalls every year. There is a plenitude of colour, an abundance of music redolent of Baishakh. Add to that colour and to that melody the power of nature to remind the world of what it does or can do to make its presence felt yet once again. In the lowing clouds hanging over the rustic fields, in the winds which sweep across the earth before flashes of lightning and ferocity of thunderclaps precede the fall of rain across the land comes that reminder of Baishakh being a particularly a local affair for the people of this land as it is of the half of it that is today part of another land. Baishakh goes beyond the frontiers that demarcate the political realities which today define life in what once was one whole, unified Bengal.
And yet Baishakh brings all Bangalees — here and over there and all across the Bangalee diaspora — together in a spontaneous offering of homage to the land and to the natural elements that have kept it going for thousands of years. Baishakh is all that and much more. It is a symbolism of all the good the Bengalis can claim for themselves through the poetry flowing from the minds of its greatest men. Rabindranath Tagore, Kazi Nazrul Islam, Dwijendra Lal Roy, Atulprasad and so many others have sung paeans to Bengal through the media of song and dance. Through the mysticism which defines faith, through the devotional songs of Lalon and Hason Raja, Baishakh rediscovers the aesthetics of life in these parts.
Yes, this morning it is truly a celebration of the past we lose ourselves in. Baishakh is all about losing oneself in order to reinvent oneself. The Bengali spirit that has all so often been a hallmark of its politics and its poetry once more goes back to the magic inherent in its heritage in order to expand the cultural parameters of the future.
In Baishakh, there are all the intimations of rain about to descend to earth, of storms ready to blow, of the rainbow taking hold of the imagination. In the waterfall laughter of women is a lilt touching the soul, ever so softly. In the conversations of men are heard the stirrings of the flute which long ago were coursed through the hamlets of this land and will be heard once again this morning.
On Pahela Baishakh, we celebrate ourselves. We celebrate all that is of us, that had been our ancestors’ and that will be our children’s.
Shubho Nababarsha!
Courtesy of The Daily Star
