The Other Puri

Debanjali Banerjee

The Bengali wanderlust, regardless of the innumerable travel spots coming up in the past few years, always had a penchant for some of the ageless favourites. Puri, undeniably, is one of them. So much so that Bengalis are often known to bump into their friends and relatives more frequently in Puri than back home in Kolkata. Staffs at some of the more popular hotels there speak Bengali more fluently than their native language. ‘Chal, du diner janya Puri ghure asi’ (let’s visit Puri for a couple of days), is a common phrase you get to hear in most Bengali homes.

Fishermen drying their nets on the Puri beach

Over the years that I have been visiting this coastal Odisha town, I never bothered to look beyond the sand, the waves, the puja at the Jagannath Temple and the ubiquitous jibhegoja (wrongly known to most people as khaja). My trips usually followed the annual exams and they brought a sense of freedom from the typical late night rummaging through science and history books.

The last time I visited Puri I really didn’t have to worry much about home. There was also nothing new to discover. I had already offered puja that morning and decided to take a walk on the beach in the afternoon. The waves were kissing my feet and I was lost in my thoughts when a voice abruptly brought me back to my senses. ‘Didi mala nebe? (sister, will you buy some garlands) an young girl asked. For those who haven’t visited Puri—I can only imagine how small that number will be—there is a small beach market which sits every evening. Traders—hawkers mostly—vend cheap souvenirs to tourists. Bags, key chains made from sea shells and garlands made of plastic beads are sold at whatever price you can successfully bargain.

‘No,’ I answered, trying to ignore the girl. But she was insistent. ‘Didi, just look at them. They are so pretty. Only Rs 30.’

‘No,’ I said again. ‘I don’t want to buy any.’

The girl kept following me, pressing me to buy the garlands. ‘Didi I didn’t sell a single garland today. If you buy two, I will give them for just Rs 50.’

I looked at the girl. She wasn’t a day more than 10 and was standing there with a huge bag of garlands and many of them hanging from her hands. She was dark and sun burnt, had waist length hair that wasn’t brushed for years, and wore a smelly soiled printed cotton frock. Her chappals were repaired well over the final time.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘Mala,’ she replied.

I wondered at the relevance of the name with her choice of career. ‘How old are you?’ I asked.

‘Eight,’ she said, hesitating for a moment.

‘Do you go to school?’

‘No didi.’

‘Why not?’

‘My mother doesn’t allow.’ I noticed the frustration in her voice.

‘Really, why?’

‘We don’t have the money.’

‘Why, what does your father do?’

‘He is no more. He is dead. Only my mother earns by cleaning utensils there,’ she said, pointing to the hotel on the road adjacent to the beach, where I had my lunch barely a couple of hours ago.

‘Do you have any brother or sister?’

‘Yes, an elder brother. He works at the same restaurant. He cleans tables”

I was silent for a few seconds.

‘Didi please buy a garland,’ she was growing impatient now.

‘But I don’t have any money with me. I left the purse in my hotel room.’

The look on her face made me sad. Disappointed, she was about to leave, when my mother came down screaming. ‘Where were you? I told you to inform me before you go out.’

‘Can you lend me 50 bucks?” I said, ignoring her complain.

‘Why,’ she asked, as is typical with all mothers. The reason for taking the money always came first rather than the urgency.

‘I want to buy these garlands.”

My mother looked confused. She knew how much I loathed these fake garlands. Nonetheless, she gave me the money. I bought two garlands from Mala. Her eyes glistened with happiness having made the bauni (first sale of the day). She made off quickly hunting for other customers.

‘Listen, I am going to Swargadwar. Need to finish some shopping. You come soon,” my mother said and panted back the way to the road.

I continued walking on the beach. Everywhere I looked, I found hundreds of Malas trying to sell their stuff to tourists. Some refused them politely, some ignored, while many others rudely shooed them away. ‘Shala, kothao shanti nei. Chhutiteo dor-daam’ (Hell, there’s no peace anywhere. You have to face bargaining even while holidaying), I heard someone saying.

Sparkling beach, religious abode, jibhegoja or whatever, Puri appeared to me just like any other town of my country. It was all about what you wanted to see. The vicious circle of poverty lay threadbare ever since tourists started visiting this place. And in all likelihood, every visitor offering donations of little or no purpose to Jagannath, will remain conveniently unaware of Mala and her ilk.