From the Editor’s Desk
About two weeks ago, I stood in a chaotic Durga Puja Pandal in Bhawanipur in Kolkata and watched a strange apparition dance on a small stage that had been constructed within the premises. This almost odd looking Durga Puja, dedicated to the dancers who perform the Gomira Mukho Naach (Gomira mask dance) from Dinajpu, in West Bengal, apparently not only pleases the deity, but also leads the deity to visit the dancer's body. The artists had successfully taken the worship of Durga into a realm of imagination. As it is with all art, this strong imagery took me to childhood stories of Vikram Betal, of Muktibodh's poem, Bramharakshash, of the yarns of imagination that myths surrounded us with. I stood in the thrall of the power of storytelling, suddenly entering a world of make-belief that I seemed to have forgotten long back.
In recent times, there has been a spurt in the growth of realistic literature with subject experts writing on specialised areas that often veer us from the throes of creativity, leaving the wells of imagination dry. But where does this leave the larger realm of art, and especially the ability of man to weave stories from both the bizarre and the mundane. At a time when man's intrinsic creativity is being threatened by almost everything machine made, with the likes of AI dominating the horizon, the question begs a serious answer and introspection perhaps. Many years ago, film maker Ritwik Ghatak made a film called Ajantrik, where he described a man's love for his machine-a car that had turned into his most precious companion. The film was a satire on man moving away from himself, from his inner creativity and power to love others and build on stories. Back then, people had called Ghatak mad, and laughed at him, and yet here we are today on the verge of raising many such pertinent questions again about the beauty of our folklore, and oral stories and why they are all but forgotten.
Before the desert came trees, and sometimes in spite of the desert, there grew flowers, it seems. I was drowned in joy, at the recent sudden images from the Atacama desert in Chile where a spurt of rains had led to the blooming of thousands of flowers in a once arid desert. Dancing in the gentle breeze, white, purple and yellow flowers had suddenly sprung to life from dry seeds that had been lying dormant for years. We could live yet to rejoice, I thought to myself. The stories will be back I'm sure, its scent, flower and green too. I live to rejoice, and hope that thousands of pods shall open, more stories dance with life, and in their shadows we shall be merry.
Till next time, to abundance of life then
Happy reading dear readers
Maitreyee Bhattacharjee Chowdhury
Managing Editor, The Bangalore Review
