West Bengal Chronicles, Part Four: Tepantar
Category Archives: culture
West Bengal Chronicles, Part Three: Songs at Sunset
As the sun descended, and the warm day gave way to a fresh-breezed evening, our small group folded ourselves down on cloth mats in a open-sided hut fashioned of bamboo. We had come to share music with bauls from Joydev Kenduli.
We had met the two brothers taking the lead on the visit, Sudhu and Kangal Das, earlier in our trip when they participated in the Sur Jahan festival in Kolkata. I had instantly liked them — because they are infinitely likable, resembling two colorfully dressed teddy bears who smile a lot and sing like angels. So, here we were in their village, listening to spiritual songs accompanied by stringed instruments, drums, and bells.
The approach to this peaceful oasis had come through a wave of choking dust kicked up along the wide dry river bed by what seemed like a never-ending sea of trucks. I recall thinking that this could not possibly be the home of the bauls, whose music is joyous and meditative. But, here we were, a short distance from the town, overlooking that same river bed from a whole different perspective.
Notice I said “sharing music” because despite the fact that most of our US-based group were self-professed non-musicians, we had been asked to sing an American song. I was, not so secretly, dreading this part of the evening, but I was the one who came up with the song that we should sing. Woody Guthrie’s This Land is Your Land fit the mood somehow, evoking landscape and espousing freedom, although with typical Guthrie irony. None of us could remember more than the first two of the seven verses, but we all joined in bravely and the bauls took over with the instrumentals once they caught the melody.
I wanted that evening to go on forever, despite the fact that I was hungry and I really had to go to the bathroom. Bodily needs could wait while the music floated on the air and we sat, swaying to the hypnotic songs and strings. But we finally had to unfold ourselves and walk by cell phone flashlight back toward the harsh glare of the main road. But, writing this weeks later, I feel as though a tiny piece of that evening lodged comfortably in my heart and will hopefully remain there for good.
West Bengal Chronicles, Part Two: A View of the Scroll Village
Imagine a whole small village of families who make their modest living painting and singing. It sounds idyllic, but I am sure it is harder than it seems. For one thing, you can’t just paint and sing all day – you need to cook, take care of children, and tend gardens, fields and animals. Plus, what if you just don’t feel inspired to paint that day – you have to anyhow, its your livelihood.
Naya village, an area in the larger Pingla district north of Kolkata, is such a place. Walk down a narrow dirt lane off the main street and you encounter neat rows of small houses with front porches devoted to sales areas, piled with scrolls and other products painted with motifs. The sides of the homes are decorated with scroll images: mostly flora and fauna.
At the end of the lane is a large modern two-story building which serves as a museum, community center and guest house. Our group is ushered into an open upstairs room, and what seems like the whole village follows. Party time!
What followed was a sort of “getting to know you” workshop. The scroll painters (included some we had already met while they were in Kolkata personning a sales booth at the Sur Jahan Festival we had 
attended the weekend before) showed us their work and sang us some scroll songs. Then, they brought out a variety of natural materials which they use to make paints – flowers, leaves, berries, and fresh tumeric – and we all laughed as they showed us how to squeeze and squish these to produce vibrant colors.
At some point in this process, one young man, Bapi Chitrakar, came up to me as I was taking photos with my phone camera. Could he borrow my phone to take some photos? (We didn’t need a common language for this transaction, gestures worked just fine.) I was slightly reductant, but we were all becoming friends here, so why not? After all, it would allow me to more fully devote myself to mashing colors into my “field notebook.”
Bapi got into the animation function (as well as the collage and burst functions), so many of the photos dance and wiggle, and capture the childlike fun we were having playing with the natural dyes and getting to know the painters. I dare say they were having fun, too, laughing with, and at, us. I’ve included some of those here.
The day ended with us presenting an idea for a scroll which they will be producing in the coming months, the story of the history and current use of the National Mall in Washington, D.C. None of them have ever seen the National Mall; we provided photos and the storyline, but we have no idea how the final scroll painting (and possibly an accompanying song) will turn out. It will be one of the many surprises and delights of this whole cultural exchange experience.
Keeping Christmas
The Dynamic Gingerbread Trio – Katie, Khamo and I – just finished our goopy, inedible creation, which we’ve been meaning to make for about a week now, or at least in time for Russian (Orthodox) Christmas (January 7). Inedible because it is a kit that I purchased for $1.50 at after Christmas sales about five years ago. The “ready to use” frosting was so hard that we had to revive it with hot water to make it usable, and it smelled nasty.
But who cares? We laughed a lot, we got creative with frosting and garish candies, and we extended that holiday feeling into the darkest and gloomiest (and lately the coldest) part of the year. That’s what “keeping Christmas” is all about.
We were also late, but not that late, with our tree, which has become a new holiday tradition at our house. We spend Christmas (the December 25th version) with my mom, sister and brother in law in Hilton Head, SC. It is usually about 75 and not feeling at all like Christmas, the only “white” part being the beach sand. When we return to Arlington on the 26th, we start the ritual of finding a Christmas tree – on the street.
Yes, there are people who ditch their tree the day after Christmas, as sad as that might seem. (They are probably the ones who put it up on Thanksgiving Day.) Poor, forlorn trees thrown to the curb, sometimes with a bit of tinsel or some missed ornament clinging to them. We pick one and give it a new life as our Christmas tree. I like to think they are happy to have a second life in our living room. Soon enough they will be turned into mulch, why not give them a little reprieve?
So, my advice, don’t let Christmas go too soon. Keep the feeling of creativity, togetherness, and light as long as you can – all year if possible. But maybe don’t wait five years to use your gingerbread house kit.
The Critters of Chestertown
Chestertown is a pleasant burg on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, where we traveled for a day trip on Thanksgiving weekend. It was “small business Saturday” so poking around in some of the little shops in town seemed the thing to do. Unless you are an extremely pokey shopper, that can be achieved in a couple of hours, max.
If you stop at the Visitor’s Center on the way in to town, they will give you a map of town so that you can see just how small it is, as well as a walking tour brochure that guides you around the stately 18th century houses paralleling the river. (Federal, Georgian, with or without Flemish bond bricks, take your pick.) A walk down to the pier to view the schooner Sultana is also a must – tall ships are always intriguing. There are several nice looking restaurants where one might get some local seafood, but we held out until Kent Narrows on our way home and indulged in some crab cakes, oysters, and scallops at the iconic Harris’s Crab House.
As we toured the town, I started noticing some interesting critter depictions. First, some very boldly colored and rather saucy lions in a fountain in the park downtown. Second, a giant crab claw emerging from the water near the pier (see landing image, above). Third, the eagle carving on the schooner. Fourth, a metal sculpture of honeybees outside a modest but well groomed house. If you get to Chestertown for a visit, you can use these as a sort of critter scavenger hunt on a leisurely walk around town. Enjoy!
Food = Family: Adventures in International Home Cooking
Many people think my husband and I are a bit weird to welcome into our home a succession of interns, research fellows and/or other young people who come to Washington, DC and need a cheap place to live. (Well, that is not the only reason they think we are weird, but that’s another story!)
However, I must say, the benefit is huge, especially if these young people know how to cook. Lately, we have been benefitting from one of our current housemates, Khamo, who has introduced us to Tibetan cuisine. Not only have we enjoyed eating these spicy and noodley wonders, but we’ve have fun trying to master the art of making them.
Momos, a type of dumpling, are juicy packets of savory meat served with a fiery dipping sauce. I almost got the hang of pinching them shut in a sort of pleating motion, but watching Khamo’s deft fingers at the job I knew I would never be able to match her years of growing up doing this. It was like watching a ballet of the fingers.
Tibetan noodle soup is the perfect winter treat. The dough is stretchy, and the technique of adding the noodles directly to the steaming pot of fragrant soup is to break off short squarish bits from a long thin rope of it with your fingers. Again, a skill perfected in one’s family kitchen over years, though a little easier to get the hang of than pleating momos. It took me five times longer than Khamo to break the pieces into the pot (and not drop them on the floor in the process). 
Our third adventure in Tibetan cooking was hot pot. This required a trip to the Chinese grocery store, Good Fortune, to get ingredients that we had no idea existed. Frozen meat and fish balls of various hues, special sauces, and a variety of vegetables including lotus root. We needed to learn how to eat this dish as well – you don’t eat the soup, you just scoop the contents out and leave the broth for cooking more ingredients.
We’ve lost track of all of the interns and fellows we’ve hosted in the past six or seven years, but we tend to recall the ones who introduced us to new food adventures or how to cook homestyle versions of foods we only enjoyed previously at restaurants. Pho from Vietnam, authentic Indian cuisine from several parts of the subcontinent, Danish open faced sandwiches, German pastries…a world of good food and new “family members” to enjoy it with.
Art in, Art Out, Art All About
Nothing like visiting museums to make you see the world just a bit differently. Last week we were visiting San Francisco, and we went to two art museums, one the first day, and one the second: the Museum of Modern Art and the De Young. We spent the better part of the day at these museums, since they are both huge and have a lot to see. And hear, which I will get to a bit later.
Looking at a lot of art, then walking around the city streets, everything suddenly seems like art. Building facades, business signs, vibrant sunsets, reflections on the water. It makes you look at things differently. (I know I am not telling you anything new, just stating the obvious.)
The MOMA right now has an installment of art and sound called Soundtracks, which is super cool. I especially liked the big shallow 
pool of water with hundreds of ceramic bowls; when one hits another, it chimes gently, like random wind chimes. I could have sat there and watched/listened for hours, zenning out.
But, there was more to see, and even more the next day at the De Young, which is located in the middle of Golden Gate Park. First you have to climb the tower to see a spectacular view of the city from all angles. Then, if you’ve paid the extra admission, the current special exhibition is a massive collection of artwork from the ancient (modern day Mexican) city of Teotihuacan.
What to see next? Tough choice, as sensory overload begins to set in after a few hours. We chose to spent some time exploring the exhibition, “Revelations: Art from the African American South.” Found materials was one theme, including a large installation composed of charred pieces of wood from a burned church. Insightful quotes from the artists were blown up on the wall, and so I will leave you with the comment of artist Lonnie Holley:
“What is art? Art is everything that we have used, waiting to be used again. That’s all art is.”
Falling for Southern France, Part Four (final)
We returned from France over over a month ago, but still the memories linger and must have their due. Here, the fourth and final installment finds us on our last full day of the trip in Sete, a small maritime city near Montpellier.
The first thing upon arriving is to find your way to the top – a challenging climb up steep streets and steps to the highest point, Mount St. Clair. The elevation is a mere 574 feet, but the view is spectacular and lays Sete’s waterways out for you so that they make sense. To the right, the Mediterranean. To the left, Etang de Thau, a sort of large lake or lagoon. And, in the middle, bisecting the town, a series of canals connecting the two. Water, water, everywhere.
Because that climb up and back down will surely make you hungry, the next thing to do is to find a spot at one of the long string of canalside cafes. If the weather is fine, as it was the day we were there, finding a seat around lunch time at one of the outdoor portions of the cafe may involve an awkward wait. Seeing as most of these cafes seem chronically understaffed, also expect a leisurely experience once you are seated.
That said, the local seafood is worth it all no matter which cafe you end up at, and the menus are all very similar. The most famous local dish is a sort of octopus pie which is called tielle setoise. We got the last one in the cafe that day, and savored every bite of the salty crusty tomatoey minced octopusiness of it. Mussels were also on offer, mine steamed and M.E.’s in a rich tomato sauce with sausage. Water all around you, seafood inside your tummy…how much better does it get?
There is apparently a nice art museum in Sete, and a lighthouse which we saw from afar, but we didn’t make it to either. We opted instead for wandering around the town, up and down the canals, poking into some shops and a modern art exhibition, snapping pictures of sites along the water. Here, a pile of fishing nets. There, a row of Crayola colored small boats for rent. Trying to capture the essence of the last place, the last day, of our wondrous trip.
I boarded the train back to Montpellier that afternoon with mixed emotions. Tomorrow we would be making the long trek back to our normal lives via train to Paris and flight home. It would be good to be home, but I felt as though I was leaving a part of me behind somehow. The intrepid traveler who “conquered” this portion of southern France. The adoring Mom who got the rare gift of spending protracted time with her grown daughter and loving every minute of sharing this part of the world with her.
Adieu, France, and thanks for opening your welcoming southern arms to us.
Falling for Southern France, Part Three: Quillan
To get a feel for a place, it helps to experience some public transportation frequented by locals. Toward this end, we started out to catch the train south from Limoux to Quillan (the end of that particular train line). We aimed for the 10:18 listed online, only to find out that there was no 10:18, and the train was really a bus. Long story, but lessons learned.
Once that was sorted, we boarded the 11:18 bus to Quillan. This is a short but very scenic ride along the Aude River, through a series of historic towns including Alet-les-Bains (ruined abbey), Couiza (jumping off point for Rennes-le-Chateau of The Da Vinci Code fame), and Esperaza (both a dinosaur and a hat museum). We did not get out to explore any of those places, but they all had promise for the adventurous tourist.
Wednesday is market day in Quillan, so we headed downtown to check out the action. We didn’t find the produce market (it had probably already ended, seeing as we didn’t get there until after noon), but there was a lively flea market, where one could find everything from clothing to books, housewares to new age paraphernalia. We spent some time pawing through a huge and very funky pile of t-shirts on offer from some Northern African merchants and chatted in my broken French with them.
Next, a short hike to the highest point in town, which was to become a theme in our wanderings around this part of France, but is always a good tourist strategy wherever you roam. In Quillan, that would be the site of the ruined castle, just a big square stub of stone with a few decorative features left, the rest of which we learned later had been pilfered by the locals to build houses down in town. (Even the gargoyles have made themselves to the end of the drain spouts of a couple of homes.) Good for spectacular views across the Pyrenees, though.
Back down into town for lunch and a decision. Bolt down lunch and make the next bus to go explore somewhere else, or enjoy a leisurely lunch and experience the rest of Quillan? We opted for the latter. After lingering over an excellent seafood salad and scads of baguette, we headed for the tourist office in order to find out how to take a deeper dive into the less obvious sites of the town. (Note, tourist offices in smaller towns in these parts close from 12 – 2 so plan accordingly.)
The rest of the day was spent strolling the streets, visiting the church, taking in the view of fishermen fly-casting on the Aude, learning how the past prosperity of the town had come from hat factories and poking down alleyways, guided somewhat by a walking tour the tourist office attendant had printed out for us. This was topped off by a reward of afternoon ice cream before boarding the 4:00 bus back to Limoux.
In short, Quillan did not offer the Medieval splendor of Carcassone, nor the tourist magnetism of some of the other remarkable places we visited during our trip, but spending a day there was a wonderful experience of feeling the rhythm of a midweek in this part of the country, and feeling pleasantly surprised by the little things. A sun dial on the side of a house. Front and back yard flower and vegetable gardens. School children headed home. Old friends greeting one another. All in the setting of the age-old mountains and the winding Aude. A most excellent day all around.
Falling for Southern France, Part Two: Carcassonne
Carcassonne – the word rolls off one’s tongue in a whisper. To many, the Medieval walled portion of this bustling city is an item on their “bucket list.” Others know it only as a board game. It is a wonderful place to spend a vacation day. (Next time I would stay longer, because it is hard to take it all in during just one day.)
We started our adventure by parking near the train station, which is close to the Canal du Midi – which figures later in the story – and setting out for the walled city. In all the photos you see of the walled city (which is situated as every fortification worth its salt on a high and formidable hill) one would assume that it must loom up from the more modern part, and that you should be able to see it from everywhere you look. Not so.
You walk and walk through the lower portion, past attractive shops, cafes and parks, and finally catch a glimpse of the ramparts high above, across the Aude River. Your first thought is, how the heck do we get way up there? Following the crowd that is inevidibly climbing the same way is one method. A young person adept at smart phone way-finding is another.
However you get up there, you must climb steep pathways or series of stairs, but as usual in this part of the world, it is well worth it. Once you reach the inner walls, you find yourself accosted by gift shops, tourist attractions such as The Torture Museum, and cafes touting the ever-present cassoulet (reportedly invented in this region of France and featuring enough types of meat to make you want to become a vegetarian after a close encounter with it).
You can merely stroll around the walls, which offer lovely views of the hills in the distance, or you can go the historical interpretation route of a visit to the Chateau Comtal, the inner residence of the aristocracy of the city, which is now a museum. (Even on a non-tourist heavy weekday, the line to enter this inner sanctum is long and slow, especially around lunch time, so maybe take the advice of some Trip Advisors and get tickets ahead. Also, some of the ramparts are closed between 11:30 and 2 for some strange reason.)
The chateau is a maze of enchanting stairs and towers that you wish would go on and on forever. Here, a view of over the tiled roof to the courtyard. There, a peak through some arrow slits. Windows open to the bracing wind of the Midi, and views of the mountains beyond. Even though the useful interpretive slide show at the beginning of the tour reminds us that much of the walled city was reconstructed, it still feels as though you are transported back to the heyday of the 12th century, before a hoard of Northerners laid siege to the castle and brought its inhabitants (including those notorious heretical Cathars) to their knees.
I must admit, my whole experience was colored by the reading of Kate Mosse’s romantic historical novel The Labyrinth, which is required reading before a visit to Carcassonne in my mind (thanks, Hanna!). Though reading these Goodreads reviews, you might be tempted to skip it, I recommend wading through if you like your historical background sprinkled with plenty of blood, lust, intrigue and time travel.
We finally, and reluctantly, left the walled city and headed back to the canal for another history lesson wrapped in a relaxed boat ride. The Canal du Midi is part of a system that runs from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean. You can take a commercial boat ride along it, or actually pilot your own canal boat for a leisurely holiday, which may be tempting some day with the right cast of characters.
As you glide down the plane tree lined canal a guide gives you excellent background information, you go through a lock to find out how those work, and you have a lovely rest stop at an old inn. A whole different view from the rugged walled city, which you could not see from the part of the canal we toured. It seemed something we had dreamed instead of actually having visited just hours before.
