What is your grandmother’s name, a friend asked my toddling daughters. Their answer surprised everyone including me. Sweetly, innocently and in a jiffy my older daughter answered : Duggamma.

My friend who knew my mother’s name smiled away the error but I was intrigued. On questioning the kids I found that when my mother was alive she used to tell them stories. Stories from the Ramayana; stories from the Mahabharata and so on.

But their favourite was the story of Ma Durga, and the reason was simple enough to guess. You see when my mother told most of the stories she had no visual aids to help her art, but when it came to the story of Goddess Durga, she had the Durga face. And she used it so effectively, so animatedly that the kids began to think of her as the incarnation of Ma Durga. Being kids and being exposed to a combination of madrasi and muslim culture their name for my mother was soon corrupted into Duggamma.

The painted Durga is a common curio in Bengali homes and also homes where the people have a strong Bengali connection. Like mine.

Considering that I spent the first ten years of my life in Calcutta and it took me a little more than that to realise that I was not a Bengali of the manor bred or otherwise, you can’t blame me for the lasting impression that I have, that I am a honorary Bengali.

Well look at it this way. How many non Bengalis do you know whose childhood friends, best friends, have names like Bappa, Bobbin and Beauty. How many do you know who learnt to swim in a ‘pukur’ and in the famous Dhakuria Lake of Calcutta. Or how many people can you think of who started their acting career by enacting the role of Netaji Subash Chandra Bose perched atop a military tank fashioned from bamboo and canvas.

I still say Eeeesh when I see something yuckcky, and Omago is a common enough utterance. My favourite song is still Nizomosondhai...my favourite movie is Kabuliwala...and my favourite sweet is Rossogolla...

I am proud of my St. Lawrence education and still grin like an insane smiley when someone calls me Beejoy...

Okay, enough of background information. And before I slip into song, yes a Bengali Song about a Jeep Driver called Kali Paaglaa...let me come to the point (well what do you expect...I am enough of a Babu Moshai to be allowed to beat around the bush for a while before I come to the core of the story)...

So, this story is about how I bagged my first stellar role on the streets of Calcutta.

Every year we would wake up to a season popularly known as Poojo. This started with the putting up a pandal...installing the deity...decorating the street and the temporary temple...helping organise and distribute Proshaad...and finally of course being a part of the Bishorjon formalities...

My traditional South Indian parents, Madrasis by Bengali definition were very supportive and encouraged all the madness that the whole pada made us kids a part of, but drew the line at allowing us to get into the truck with the deity and going to the Kidderpore Docks for the immersion.

But that year was different. I had told my friends that my father had been transferred and it would be the last Durga Poojo Celebrations that I’d take part in. There was enough sorrow going around at the mention of my leaving the environs but one Dada saw something which no one else did.

He decided then, unbidden...that he would make me feel wanted by the whole neighbourhood...and he decided to involve me in jobs that would make me feel the magic of the moment again and again for the rest of my life.

For hours on end for instance, he would make me in charge of the music and PA system at the poojo pandal. I would choose which was the next 45 rpm record to be played, and I could increase the volume of the tannoy speakers if I so desired.

All he could do however on stage was to make me key projector operator. The cyclorama effect had just come into vogue. And moving titles were an innovation. How the combination worked was that after the program of the evening, the screen would be lit up in cyclorama blue and some characters would mime a shadow performance set to music. And there was a hand cranked projector back stage that had a roll of lith film that projected white letters on the screen.

Yes, laugh...but then it looked as fascinating as the title sequence of Superman and Star Wars. And I loved to be a part of the production...even had my name featured on the screen...

I guess what this Dada did for me would have qualified as a series of Kodak moments but a queer turn of events catapulted me into another sphere altogether.

You see, one of the things that the boys in the neighbourhood had decided was that they would make a mock Patton Tank for the Poojo Parade. Perhaps it had a lots to do with the fact that in the aftermath of India’s battles with China and Pakistan in the late sixties the general mood was fairly martial and demanding of heroes.

The tank was an ingenious construction. The framework was made from Bamboo, and the whole structure was wrapped in canvas that was then painted olive green. Inside were 12 or 16 tough young lads who walked in unison and literally carried the tank through the streets of the procession.

Almost at the last minute someone came up with an idea that the tank would look much better if the top was opened up and we had a look alike hero sitting atop the ‘patton’ tank. While fixing the tank to accommodate a hero was easy, the introduction of a full grown adult proved to be a pain to the tank’s pushers. And to cut a long story short, it was decided (with auto suggestions by my friend, the neighbourhood Dada) to put up a fancy dressed kid...and the kid would be made to resemble, well who else but Netaji Subash Bose...

so what if Netaji had nothing to do with the recent wars...or did he?

So I hogged the limelight across Calcutta...and as a special favour...was allowed to go to the docks in the truck.

As we reached the docks and cranes lifted the Goddess Durga gently and lowered her into the Ganges a thousand cheers went up into the air...I however was crying...my first performance for Durga Ma was destined to be my last...

and when many years ago, my mother passed away...I looked at her burning embers and said what I had said so many years ago...Bye Bye Duggamma...