Excerpts from the Joydev Mela

I have never met a man
Who did not make me sad.
I have never met a man
Who did not make me sad.
Perhaps it’s because
I have never met a man
To whom pain was not given.

            These veins are filled with worms,
            This body is rotting,
            Eaten away by pride.
            This body is made from mud
            And to mud it will return.

Even the birds
Fly away from me.
Even the birds
Fly away from me
Oh, why did I approach them
Drawn by their sweet song?

I waited all my life
To give all my love to you.
I waited all my life
To give all my love to you.
But you threw it away
Like filthy rags
That have soaked the dirt of the world.

Song of the Baul

Every year, in the third week of January, the little village of Kenduli, in West Bengal, decks itself up in splendorous colours and bedazzling lights, and prepares to host over a quarter of a million people who come to be part of the Joydev Mela. It’s a spectacular meeting ground for villagers and traders, sadhus and fakirs, and the purveyors of Bhakti in song – Bauls.

For the unaware, Bauls are wandering minstrels. Most of them lead rather ascetic lives. Some of them play indigenous instruments, like the ektara: a single stringed marvel, while other bang on anything available and sing in cracking voices. They all have a repertoire of songs that they have penned, along with a few famous Baul pieces, and these they sing – for their supper. The singing may not be brilliant but the lyrics are thought provoking. Unfortunately for me they sing in Bengali, so I was unable to understand most of the songs. One chap was kind enough to sing a song for me in Hindi, which I have translated (to the best of my abilities) above.

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“Don’t keep your money lying around on the ground like that - it might blow away in the wind.”

“It’s not my money, it’s God’s money, he can do what he wants with it.”

He banged away furiously on his upturned steel plate as he sang himself hoarse and delighted the small crowd. He wore only a loin cloth in the winter freeze while I shivered despite a sweater and a shawl. Next to him a small cloth bundle in which he carried his lack of possessions. People in the crowd gave him money, mostly five or ten rupee notes which he gratefully accepted, touching them to his head and then holding them towards the sky before leaving them on the ground.

**********

Something in Bengali

“I don’t know Bangla”

“Oh, where are you from?”

“Bangalore”

“I’m sorry, I thought you were a Baul, you look like one, that’s why I asked you in Bengali, ‘what do you think of Bappi da?’”

As I stood on the banks of the Ajoy river, in the fast fading evening light, this passer-by stops and stares at me, then he starts to walk up to me, his eyes intently fixed on me until his face was a few inches from mine. I smiled, and he thought I was a Baul, I’m not sure why. Perhaps he seriously wanted to know whether Bappi Lahiri could be considered a good musician, or perhaps he was making a joke that was wasted on me. I don’t know!

**********

“There must be something about being a Baba…see how many there are.”

Shankar Baba is possibly the nicest and most amicable Baba I have met, he gave me the address and phone number of his Calcutta Ashram. He was a Shaivite and I think he was trying to be funny.

**********

“Do you think you can get me a job in Bangalore?”

“What kind of job?”

“I don’t know, something easy?”

“What can you do.”

“Hmmm….nothing.”

“Erm…can you drive a vehicle, or cook or sew?”

“No”

“Can you read and write?”

“Yes, I studied till the eighth.”

“I don’t know if you can find a job very easily in Bangalore, you need to have some skill”

“What about a government job?”

This sweet simpleton, though he knew very little, obviously knew enough about government jobs.

**********

Something in Bengali

“I don’t know Bangla.”

“Oh, where are you from?”

“Bangalore”

“Then what language do you in sing your songs in?”

“Huh?...NO!, I am NOT a Baul.”

Yes, it happened again. Perhaps I can pen some songs and wander in the wilderness.

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“Doll set….Rs. 12”

“Toy air gun….Rs. 12”

“Toy train…Rs. 12”

“Magic box…Rs. 12”

And so on and so forth….

Recorded message blaring on loudspeaker at all-items-fixed-price-Rs-12-only shop with big boards indicating fixed-price-Rs-12-only prominently displayed in Bangla, Hindi and English.

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"MANOJ!......MANOJ!.....MANOJ!"

With hundreds of thousands of people milling around, the narrow village pathways are jammed - people jammed. Even four adults holding hands can lose one of their friends causing the remaining three to walk around forlornly, still holding hands, yelling out their friend's name in hopes of a joyful reunion. From what I have learnt from Bollywood, they will not meet for another twenty years, by which time their long lost friend would have become an infamous underworld smuggler, while the other three would have joined the police force. It will be a tragic reunion for Manoj and his friends.

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"We all have wives and children, but every year, at this time, something stirs in our hearts and we have to leave them and make this journey to Joydev."

One fifty something man, who has been coming to the mela for the last forty something years told me about the origins of the mela. Apparently back in the day there was a Krishna Bhakt called Joydeva who prayed fervently for three days and then Krishna appeared to him and gave him the gift of writing lyric. He went on to become a famous poet who wrote a number of poems about Krishna and his playboy antics. He also told me there still exist the footprints of Krishna where he appeared to Joydeva, though I could not locate the spot from the directions he gave me.

In the centre of the village there stands a large, bizarre 13th century temple that is dedicated to Joydeva. It's walls are decorated with carvings illustrating the life of Krishna as well as some bits from the Ramayana. Overall the whole village as well as the mela has a Vaishnava feel to it.