“Strange? Not at all Manjula, I feel much the same way. Life flows in a continuum. A new generation always out seats the former – much like what is modern and new today becomes staid and boring tomorrow! This is life’s way to ensure that we willingly and gracefully give way to the future.”

Our two boys had been growing up right in front of our eyes. And despite our best efforts to provide them with a ‘similar set of inputs’ in terms of food, emotional support at home, space, choice of school, books, toys, outings and pass-times, the two were growing up to be two very different individuals. Tim – formally known as Sushanto – was a charmer, an outgoing lady-killer who had bright eyes, a glib tongue, a mop of unruly hair and a dimple when he smiled. He was also showing strong signs of academic brilliance and his teachers at school were full of praise for his diligence and quick wit. Tim was also very clear that he would grow up to become an engineer like his father, which gave him the license to open up and destroy almost everything he could lay his hands on, since he wanted to know how it worked.

He was also very clear that he when he grew up he would own the big house down the road where he would stay alone with his wife and children. As for us, we could fend for ourselves!

Tot – Sumanto, that is – on the other hand was quieter and less outgoing. Awestruck in part by his brother’s exhuberance, he found respite in music, in animals, in team games and yes, extra-curricular activities that allowed him to express himself in his own special way. There was no doubt that he was exceedingly bright – he was promoted twice out of turn since the school authorities were sure his IQ levels were far above his peers – but he was bright in a controlled sort of way. Naturally, when we were summoned one afternoon to an assembly at the Bingley Junior School, we hardly expected what we saw and heard. Little Tot actually led the School Choir! This, we later got to know from his teachers, had been the practice for the past year. “Why hasn’t he told you?”, she asked. All we could do was hemm and haw. We later got to know that he forgot to share that little detail with us, primarily because it came to him so naturally. It wasn’t something to needlessly talk about.

As the boys grew up, we found we had suddenly gained a new identity: “This is Sumanto and Sushanto’s parents..” or “Hello Tim and Tot’s mama!” or “Hi dear, guess who these are, Tim and Tot’s parents, aren’t they a spitting image of their sons?”

I always found the last one slightly confusing. We, the replica of our sons? Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around? Well, we didn’t really mind, but it brought a smile to our lips every time we heard an excited parent on the street introduce us as such.

Suddenly we had a new engaged social life to take care of. One peppered with aunt’s and uncle’s. With nieces and nephews. With friends and acquaintances from school, from Sunday School, from the Choir, from the football team, from the neighbourhood… And what followed were a stream of birthday parties, Christmas parties, presents, balloons, farewell dos and sleepovers. I seem to have become quite the full-time chaperone, whose sole purpose in life was to collect the boys from one place and drop them off at another – at times to two different places, before having to collect them all over again. But I didn’t complain. The tediousness of these chores disappeared every-time I saw a cheerful smile light up their faces when they saw me waiting for them.

Since Soumya was at work through much of this, our weekends were filled up with outings as he tried his best to make up for all the lost time. I remember a conversation we had had fairly early on in our marriage about this.

“Soumya”, I had asked, “do you realize that the way you work that you are going to miss out on so much of our son’s childhood? Tim’s first smile, his first words, his first steps, his first crush, his first football match, everything?”

“I know, but I don’t have a choice, do I?”, he brooded as a darkness suddenly crept over his face. “The pressures at Woden are only increasing. Close to a hundred people were laid off last week as a result of the industrial slump. With the way the economy is going, I am fairly sure that this won’t be the last time people are exited either. I need you to be my eyes and ears and tell me everything you see and find fascinating about them growing up. I need to continue to put my head down and see us through this storm”.

It was moments like these that made us yearn for home. The security of our country. The safety in numbers. The surety of our families. Of our erstwhile way of life.

One of the biggest debates we had with many of our friends was whether we ought to teach Bengali – our mother tongue – to our children as they grew up. “Bengali, their mother tongue?” Rathin had asked one afternoon as he stood with his back to the fireplace.” What, do you want them to be Indian? Face facts sweetheart, your children are British. Their mother tongue is English. Bengali is a thing of the past. Don’t let your hangover with the past become an albatross that you pass on to them!”

We thought otherwise.

Bengali, unlike many of our friends, was the language we spoke at home between ourselves since we were married. We didn’t intend to stop now.

But then help often comes in from the most unexpected quarters. In this case, from the good Dr Goodburn, my sons’ paediatrician.

“Now don’t get me wrong”, she had started one afternoon choosing her words carefully and watching our faces closely for the slightest indication that she was crossing the line of propriety, “your children are no doubt British and I, for one, am extremely glad that they are, otherwise, how would we have met? But let them not forget their roots, their language, who they really are. I still speak my native Celtic dialect as well as I do the Queen’s English. It gives me a sense of identity, of belonging that I hold very dear. Teach them your language as well. English will come naturally to them. Your language won’t, since they will hardly hear it around them as they grow up.”

“And don’t worry about them growing up confused”, she tried to reassure us, “a child can learn up to five languages simultaneously till the age of six. If you don’t do this now, it will be too late and you will never forgive yourselves.”

We made sure that we didn’t have reason to. And while, they did speak the language with errors in syntax, grammar and with the most violent cockney accent that you can imagine, the fact is that they grew up knowing that Bengali was very much a part of their being. Would this hold them in good stead when they prepared to step into the limelight? Only time would tell. But for the moment we were happy.

Soumya and I beamed as the gathering stood up and applauded our young boys, who dressed in starched white dhotis and kurtas, had just finished singing their first-ever Bengali song. The evergreen ‘Dhitang Dhitang Bole‘ had once again proved to be a hit. They had instantly gained many fans. And we even more recognition as their parents.

Image courtesy: cbcs from sxc.hu

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I am not sure whether it was Manjula or Pratima, Subir’s wife, who had had this brain wave when we were wondering how to rally the troops: look in the telephone directory, wouldn’t that be the most obvious place where we would find the details of Bengali’s or Indian’s resident in and around Wolverhampton? Wouldn’t they be the obvious choice for us to reach out to in search of donations, volunteers, attendees and ambassadors of our programme?

To our surprise there were details of close to a hundred gentlemen and ladies who were hiding within the pages of the local telephone directory. The majority of whom, we didn’t know existed despite our longish stint in Wolverhampton. Presumably, they hadn’t bothered looking into this treasure trove either and had also so far spent their time hoping they would bump into someone the next time they went out shopping.

In the days that followed, we collectively assigned responsibilities to ‘couples” – committees did no work – that would help us further understand the feasibility of bringing our dream to fruition. ‘You are responsible for finding a hall’; ‘the two of you are responsible for checking with the Police and Fire brigade to see if they have an issue with a lot of people congregating in the same place over a five-day period’; ‘Can you check with relatives or friends in Kolkata how much an idol would cost? And whether Air India would bring it across to us at a discounted rate?’; ‘Will you please try to look up the telephone directory and see if we can find more people to help us?’.

The list of associated chores went on and on. We didn’t mind. Hopefully, at the end of the entire proceedings we would have brought a bit our culture and religion on to the English shores. That is not to say that the United Kingdom didn’t have a temple in those days, it did. It was rumoured that there were a couple of temples, one in the North of the country, another in Southhall – close to London – which we later discovered was a Gurdwara and not a temple – and another toward Liverpool. All of which were too far for us to take a stroll or a weekend drive to. This would be our initiative. Much closer at hand and far more personal.

Of course, we also had our fair share of hiccups along the way.

“Mr Bandopadhyay?” I asked, as the Indian looking gentleman opened the door, “My name is Soumya, Soumyabrata Ghosh and this is my wife, Manjula Ghose we live down the road. Could we speak to you for a moment?”

“Sure,” Mr Bandopadhyay said, still refusing to invite us in or holding the door open an inch more than was necessary to accommodate his somewhat robust frame.

“Mr Bandopadhyay,” I said quickly changing to Bengali, “we are part of the West Midland’s Bengali Association and would like to inform you that we are planning to organize a Durga Puja this year. This ,we hope, will bring comfort to many like us who are now residing in the UK”.

“So, how does that affect me?” he replied – in English – with his head slightly tilted on one side and a ‘why on earth are you disturbing me?’ look on his face.

“Well, we were hoping we could ask you to join us in our endeavour – either by way of making a generous donation to the cause or by helping us with your presence in the run up to the Puja. This will lend us immense moral support, and you could possibly even take on certain responsibilities in and around the Puja…” I continued in our mother tongue, hoping to clutch at a straw that would ring an emotional chord with the gentleman before me.

“I am not interested in your Puja!” Mr Bandopadhyay said, as he started to shut the door on us.

“But aren’t you a Bengali? Doesn’t the Puja mean something to you?” I asked placing a hand on the door, “Couldn’t we at least expect you to make a donation?”

“Please do not disturb me any more. Yes, I was born an Indian. But I am no longer so. Unlike you, I am British. I am now a Christian and I am not interested in you or your religion!” and he slammed the door on our upturned faces.

There were many such incidents we had to contend with over the weeks that followed. People who were no longer interested in being Indian; people who were no longer believers in the faith; people who had forgotten our native language; people who were going away; whose wives were pregnant and would continue to be through the Pujas; or those who were simply too busy to be so disturbed. We often felt like salesmen and women trying to peddle our wares. But for every one person who shut their doors on us there were two, or possibly three, who welcomed us with open arms. Be it on the phone or in person.

Much like the Pied Piper walking through the Streets of Hamelin, the Bengali’s came walking, dancing, tripping to the still imaginary beat of the dhak that was wafting through the air.

Durga was no doubt on our side. Our weekend meetings were no longer filled with news from home or how Wolverhampton Wonderers had fared or how Manchester United was trying to recover from the loss of its celebrated football team and piece its act together. We had now all found a new sense of purpose. A new goal. And all of us were eager to share the week’s developments with the rest of the group and the new ‘members’, who had come forward to join us.

Durga was a reality. She had charmed the Mayor’s office, the Police, the Fire Brigade, the Express & Star, Air India, a Priest and everyone else who mattered into allowing us to work toward the realization of our collective dream and desire.

Ten and a half weeks from the day we had first talked about the possibility, we all stood in front of a replica of our beloved Goddess who looked down upon us with a slightly bemused smile. “All of you really wanted me to be here, didn’t you?” She seemed to say, “How could I not be here then? Does a mother ever forsake her children?”

Our prayers had been answered. The Puja was to start the next day.

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