10 December 2013, 12:25 AM IST
How often have you talked of people stating that a particular place has a 'marvelous, old-worldly charm about it' or that it 'feels exactly the way I remember it from 20 years ago'? Well, I have just come back from a pit stop visit to Puri, which as many a home-grown Bengali would tell you, has traditionally been the equivalent of the French Riviera for most middle class Bengalis for as long as one can remember.
Puri, for the uninitiated, is a wonderfully scenic sea-side destination some 70-odd kms from Bhubaneswar in Odisha, or a relatively short overnight train ride from Kolkata. Bengalis have flocked to Puri over the years because of their devotion to Lord Jagannath, the benevolent reigning deity of the Jagannath Temple (of the 'ratha yatra' and 'Juggernaut' fame). They would also visit Puri because West Bengal hardly has any sea-side destinations that can equal the tumultuous surf, the (relatively) clean beaches, the lines of (Bengali-owned?) beach side hotels, the sweet-meats and other mouth-watering delicacies that this temple town is famous for. There are of course two other reasons: the fact that the Bengali can speak in Bengali and get away with complete ease in the town; and the fact that a family of four can spend an entire week in Puri – living close to the beach, with temple, tours and lavish meals thrown in without spending too much more than Rs 8,000 even today.
Don't get me wrong, this is piece is not intended to deride Bengalis in any way. Over the past 30 years, I must have visited Puri at least 20 times. Of which, I remember four visits were in one particular year, when we headed to the sea-side on every single holiday that was possible. And yet, even today, I still can't get enough of the place.
However, I must admit that the current pit stop made me look at things in a slightly different light: I found it strange that Puri is pretty much the same even today. The stretch of the beach – Swargadwar – still attracts the most people even as hotels on either extremity – beyond the Panthanivas at one end (Hotel Mayfair, thankfully, is an exception) and New Sea Hawk on the other, lie pretty empty and desolate. The handicrafts that were sold there 30 years ago – stone artifacts of Lord Jagannath, the Konark wheel and the Sun temple, Puri inscribed pots and pans made of an aluminum alloy, the jumbled assortment of sea-shells and bone artifacts, the clothing made from
'Cuttacki' and Sambalpuri fabric; and the sweet-meats sold then, are pretty much what you will find now. What is remarkable is that even the shops that attracted the most traffic 30 years ago are the ones that continue to do so today. And all of this is still available at prices, which to a Mumbaiwallah seem ridiculously low (when is the last time you ate a full-five course vegetarian meal for under Rs 150 or bought a beautifully tailored traditional kurta for Rs 90 only?).
The only changes I spotted between my last visit 3 years ago and this one were: the beer bars that had started mushrooming on the beach have (thankfully) gone; the beach is now patrolled by members of the 'Puri Police and Life Guards' unit, who incidentally appear to have made the age-old 'nulia' (life guard) who would also for a price take you out to sea for a good roughand tumble, near redundant; the import of a couple of camels and horses, which now give you a ride on the beach; the foundations of a small and basic amusement park; the presence of a Bhojo Hari Manna outlet – a popular Bengali fine dining restaurant; and the sprouting of a Domino's Pizza and a Momo stall.
Oh, and yes, there were two other changes I noticed: groups of young Oriya boys playing cricket on the beach; and the presence of several shoe-polishwallahs along the promenade. But then, I also noticed several other small entrepreneurs – puchkawallahs (gol gappas or pani puris), those selling tender coconuts, conch shells and shell jewelry, bags or even ice-cream vendors – waiting almost throughout the day for a single customer.
One of the most fascinating things about a trip to a sea-side in India is watching the convoy of fishermen go out to sea toward the evening or sail past lazily with their fluorescent sails in the late afternoon sun. Equally exciting is watching them return in the morning or to watch them working in teams to gather their nets, and hopefully their catch. Scores of people stand by in anticipation of what treasures the nets with reveal. And more often than not, their wait, and the efforts of the fisherfolk are well rewarded as a tumble of shining fish, prawns, crab, eels and even the odd shark and jelly fish emerge out of their nets as a reward for their hard work. This time, like always, I spent a fair amount of time watching the fisherfolk and waited to see what their night-long vigil would return, even as several other tourists waited with to buy the fresh catch - at near throwaway prices – even before the waiting womenfolk had loaded the fish into their baskets to head to the market. But unfortunately, there nets were almost empty. "It's the current at this time of the year", one of the fishermen explained, when asked where all the 'big fish' had gone.
As we move forward in leaps and bounds, I must say that I at times think about the lives of these people who appear to be stuck in a monotonous circle of existence. The inequity of a coffee vendor (or a sweet vendor, a shoe polishwallah or puchkawallah….) who is paid Rs 5 for a cup of watered down coffee as opposed to the amount we are ready to pay for a cup of the steaming brew at a Starbucks or Café Coffee Day; the retailer, who is paid Rs 90 for a hand-woven kurta or a couple of hundred rupees for a shirt made of traditional fabric, when we think nothing of paying a couple of thousand rupees for a machine maid shirt retailed at Louis Philippe; and the artisan, who is paid next to nothing for all his efforts – that too, after several rounds of haggling – when we unhesitatingly pay much more, for mass-produced wares at (albeit) larger, fixed price shops. Do these people – or the fishermen who are the mercy of nature – ever have a hope of improving their lot? (Wouldn't they be able to provide us with better quality products if they were paid the same amount of money that we are ready to pay others?) Or are we pushing them deeper and deeper into a crevasse, and increasingly marginalizing them, with little thought about their futures?
While as all of us recognize that this is not a phenomenon isolated to Puri, to Odisha, or in many ways, to one country, I don't really see why things need to be this way: why we should feel superior (in purchasing power) to those we are purchasing from when travelling in our own country. Why should anyone, especially talented traditional craftsmen feel, inferior to us in anyway? It is here that change – almost some degree of normalization of prices – needs to take place. Otherwise, the very feeling of familiarity that we so cherish at times, may one day result in the near extinction of these very crafts, these people and these places.
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