At the Stroke of the Midnight hour

75 years ago, on August 15th, 1947, “at the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world slept, India awoke to life and freedom” and promised to bring equal opportunity, justice and fullness of life to everyone who lived in India. 

As a child of the 70s, I saw my country steady itself towards this north star every time the billowing waves of religious turmoil rocked it to its very core. Not a day went by when we didn’t take pride in its religions, languages, cultures and communities that were so diverse and yet so uniquely and equally Indian. In fact, my non-Indian often ask me, “You all speak different languages, eat different foods, produce different textiles, yet I don’t know of any community who identify so strongly with their country of birth and strive to go back to there as often. I fail to understand what, despite all these differences, makes you feel so Indian?” I have no answer because it has always been this way. Each Indian community takes pride in its language, foods, faith, and culture, and yet knows we are all connected through our shared history.

Today, as that country of my childhood steers far far away from fulfilling that pledge of equality made some 75 years ago, are we brave enough and wise enough to yet again realize that quintessential trait that is at the heart of our Indian identity – that despite all our differences we are much stronger when we embrace our Unity in Diversity?

Jai Hind.

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When you save a life, you save the world

Aditi Raychoudhury. My father readied for cremation as I bid my last goodbye. 2019 . Watercolors and Goauche.
Aditi Raychoudhury. My father readied for cremation as I bid my last goodbye. 2019 . Watercolors and Goauche.

Dear Baba,

Its been eight years since we lost you and not a day goes by when I don’t think of you. Like most children, there are so many special memories boundd with a parent – but what ties all our memories together is your unbridled and overwhelming kindness – an overarching trait that everyone best remembers you for.

You raised your voice only once with each of your children – Amber, Pratiti and me. When we got married you embraced our spouses as your own. It’s a pity that my sister-in-law and our children missed out on creating those loving memories with you.

Every time I raise my voice and more, I reflect on how can I be just a tiny bit more like you? How can I transcend my impatience, anger, intolerance and transform those emotions into a stream of kindness like you did? When Ma became too ill to take care of herself you took care of her. Unlike so many men of your generation, you were never too squeamish to change our soiled nappies or wipe her soiled bottom. No act of care was beneath you. You and Ma had not met till your wedding day, yet it is the best marriage that I know of.

While Ma toiled away to raise us, you were that gentle cloud that protected us from the heat of anger. Every weekend you took us to the market and kept us out of Ma’s hair, because you knew she needed a break from being a parent. You understood, that like Satyajit Ray’s protagonist Charulata, she needed to be her own woman – in her case, that meant continuing her long daily riyaaz on the sitar. She never had to ask that of you. In fact, no one ever had to ask what they needed from you – such was your empathy.

Once when my cocky teenage self had asked you “Baba, why do you keep helping others, even though you know that they will never pay you back?” You said, ever so gently, “I know. I know that they won’t pay me back, but the day we lose our humanity, we cease to be human.” Its something I have never forgotten. While I am not you, and can never be you, extending random acts of kindness is something I try to do to honor you.

How surreal to live in a time when I feel relieved that you went out like a candle that was extinguished in a sudden whiff of wind. We had spoken with you just the night before to plan our trip to Alaska in the Fall. The next call from Kolkata the following morning was of your passing – a massive heart attack.

But, we could at least get on a plane within a day of you passing away and perform your last rites. Today I feel a deep dark ocean of sadness for every person who has lost a loved one to COVID. I can think of almost no greater tragedy than to have to grieve in isolation without being able to participate in the rites that every religion has in place to bring closure. All of you, who have lost someone during this pandemic, please know that I am thinking of you, just as I am thinking of my father today and everyday. As I am pummeled with news of COVID deaths in India from friends and family, I implore anyone who has been reading this to donate to https://affirm.giveindia.org – a COVID relief fundraiser organized by Aniruddh and other southasians at Affirm. No amount is too small.

“When you save a life, you save the world”. Thank you!

Vasant Panchami Part Two: Stealing Kul

Aditi Raychoudhury. My sister and I stealing kul. 2021. Colored version to come some day. #pencildrawing

Its the fifth (panchami) day of Spring (Basant) in Bengal and with it comes this festival dedicated to the Goddess of Knowledge, Saraswati. I used to love everything about this festival. It’s a day of freedom from learning as we surrender our books, instruments, ghungrus (dancing bells), pens and pencils in front of the Goddess of learning, so that she can bless each one of these tokens of learning and make us fruitful in our pursuit of knowledge and wisdom. It is often very intimate in scale and for us, it was always held at one of my favorite family’s home – the Chatterjis.

Chatterji Jethu* was sprightly, a great gardener and just an overall gentle and affectionate person to be with, especially because he would always invite us when the lychees in his yard were ready for our raiding. Chatterji Jethima* was known for her cooking skills through out the neighborhood – especially her aachaars** and ghughni*** and luchi***. The neighborhood adult community came together to cook giant vats of food as we ran around playing with our friends. We would sit down in batches to eat the bhog****, served on plates made with the shaal pata (Shorea_robusta).

Vasant Panchami. 2017. Watercolor and Ink.
Vasant Panchami. 2017. Watercolor and Ink.
Sal leaf plates: Stitched together with small sticks. It is a cottage industry mostly run by women.
Sal Leaf Bowls

But the most exciting part was that we could finally eat the forbidden fruit – Kul (Indian Jujube).. but only after the prayers had been offered. But, really wait for prayers before we could eat Kul?? We have waited long enough for the fruit to be just ripe and ready to eat.

Here I am with my sister Pratiti Raychoudhury throwing caution to the wind and creeping in to steal some kul after everything has been beautifully arranged for the Goddess to eat and bless but before prayers have been offered and blessings have been completed. Will eating kul before the eager Goddess make her petulant enough to dump a bunch of Math problems we can’t solve? Are we going to get failing grades? Who cares, eating this fruit before the ceremony has taken place is worth every drop in grades.

*Terms for your parents’ friends when they are older than your father
**Aachaar : Indian preserves
*** Whole yellow peas curry with about 4″ diameter fried bread
****Food that has been blessed by Gods/ Goddesses.

Pandemic Thanksgiving

Aditi Raychoudhury. You are missing. November, 2020. Watercolor and Gouache.

Aditi Raychoudhury. You are missing (Detail). November, 2020. Watercolor and Gouache.
Aditi Raychoudhury. You are missing (Detail). November, 2020. Watercolor and Gouache.

Aditi Raychoudhury. You are missing (Detail). November, 2020. Watercolor and Gouache.
Aditi Raychoudhury. You are missing (Detail). November, 2020. Watercolor and Gouache.

Aditi Raychoudhury. You are missing (Detail). November, 2020. Watercolor and Gouache.

Aditi Raychoudhury. You are missing (Detail). November, 2020. Watercolor and Gouache.

Aditi Raychoudhury. You are missing (Detail). November, 2020. Watercolor and Gouache.
Aditi Raychoudhury. You are missing (Detail). November, 2020. Watercolor and Gouache.

Having lost my mother to cancer at 26, and my father to a heart attack 16 years later, I am no stranger to losing those we hold dear. While I still miss them after all these years, I was able to hug them and kiss them as I said my final goodbye.. a privilege that so many families across the world have not had as their loved one fell victim to this deadly virus. I can’t imagine the heartbreak of not being able to hold your loved one and say that final good bye.

As you struggle through this festival dedicated to gratitude and love of family, I can’t say that you will stop missing those you have lost. But as the years go by, may that empty chair that you are can barely look at through your tears today, fill up with love and cherished memories that you share with generations around the table, just like I share the memories of the grandparents my daughter couldn’t meet.

Much love to all Americans during this difficult Thanksgiving. Cherish love, and have a safe Thanksgiving.

“Pictures on the nightstand, TV’s in the den,
Your house is waiting, your house is waiting,
For you to walk in, for you to walk in,
But you are missing, you’re missing..”

~ Bruce Springsteen

Bishorjon

Aditi Raychoudhury. Bishorjon. 2020. Watercolor and Gouache.
Aditi Raychoudhury. Bishorjon. 2020. Watercolor and Gouache.

The victory of good over evil as Durga vanquishes Mahisasura in an epic battle, is celebrated as Bijoya or victory. We wear new clothes and visit our friends and family to eat, eat and eat some more of our wonderful delicacies that are specific to the season. However, the joyous Bijoya is not complete without Bishorjon, the act of immersing the clay idols into bodies of life giving water. It’s a day when the streets are lined with people waiting to catch a last glimpse of Ma Durga as she leaves her maternal home amongst us to go back to her home in Mount Kailash.

Aditi Raychoudhury. Bishorjon. 2020. Pencil on tracing paper.

I remember waiting for this poignant moment, eagerly waiting to catch a glimpse of Durga for the very last time as the sounds of cymbals and dhaaks got louder and louder. My heart pounding, “She is coming! She is coming!” And then finally, you see her emerging from round the corner, the majestic statue of Durga flanked by her children, slowly getting larger and larger til she is right in front of us for a brief moment before passing us by as we bid our sad silent goodbyes. Our eyes well up with soft tears, as we assure ourselves, “Aashbey! Maa abate aashbey!” (She will be back again), as the crowd slowly disperses.

Even though, in reality the entire giant statue of Durga and her children are immersed into the river amidst loud clamor, I wanted to capture the intimate moment of gently letting go as a priest cradles Ganesha, one of Durga’s children, before he gently drops him into the water. As we feast for days, even after Durga has left us, Bishorjon is a gentle reminder of learning to letting go. It is a reminder that sadness and happiness are welded together in hope that this short-lived season of celebration as the monsoons ease up and summer gives way to early autumn will be back with festivals in spring and then finally the days of celebration all over India in the early autumn months.. a season for reasons unbeknownst to me has always felt bittersweet – happy for the crisp sun and grand festivals to come and yet sad as the year is definitely coming to an end.

Shubho Mohaloya

Aditi Raychoudhury. Mohaloya. 2018. Watercolor. Gouache. Photoshop.

Ya devi sarva bhuteshu, shakti rupena sangsthita, Namastasyai, namastasyai, namastasyai, namo namaha

[To that Devi Who in All Beings is Abiding in the Form of Power,
Salutations to Her, Salutations to Her, Salutations to Her, Salutations again and again]

Long gone are those days when we would fall into expectant sleep knowing we would be up at the crack of dawn to this chant welcoming the arrival of Goddess Durga who would slay the demon Mahisasura Most Bengalis of my generation and generations before me did this. I am not sure if that still happens – certainly not in my US household and its a travesty. My daughter knows nothing about the uncontrollable excitement over Ma Durga’s arrival (with her children in tow), school closure, and going out every day in brand new clothes to eat delicious bhog with our friends and just soak in the indescribable atmosphere. What a loss for my daughter and everyone who has never experienced it. Here is @sandip.rc capturing my experience in his podcast https://www.kalw.org/post/sandip-roy-happy-durga-puja-2016

Embrace Isolation

I wanted to present an intimate portrait of a family during COVID19 and focus on that insidious killer, which no amount of handwashing or masks can destroy from ripping away our deep rooted need for human contact.

As we all shelter in place and wrestle against our distraught children, snippy spouses, simmering cabin fever and colossal uncertainty, I see spring’s riotous explosion of colors – it’s beauty, a ferocious and radical act of defiance against death and despair. It reminds me that our lives, too, will blossom back in technicolor, if we can seize little pleasures and completely embrace isolation.

Like the image? Would appreciate it if you show your support by voting on https://community.amplifier.org/art/embrace-isolation/ and sharing the same message through your networks. Voting ends on May 8th. Many thanks!

~Aditi

Torn Apart

Aditi Raychoudhury. Torn Apart. Gouache. 2018
Aditi Raychoudhury. Torn Apart. Gouache. 2018

Separating families is a violation of international law and one of the worst kinds of abuse, and its happening right now in our southern border. So, why is a family willing to flee their homeland and risk it all? Nobody wants to leave their country of birth and extended family and friends behind and risk it all unless they fear for the safety of their family in their own homeland, and hope for a better life in the land they were told would welcome the tired, the poor, the homeless, the wretched refuse and the tempest tossed huddled masses yearning to breathe free. And here we are, not living up to that promise. I wanted to capture a family at its most tender and vulnerable moment – the agony in the hearts of the parents who may never see who they love the most and the bewilderment of a child as to why she can’t be with those who love her the most.

Proceeds from the sales of this poster support DreamCorps, a social justice accelerator founded by Van Jones that advances economic, environmental, and criminal justice solutions.

Save Climate Refugees

Aditi Raychoudhury. Save Climate Refugees. 2020. Adobe Illustrator.
Aditi Raychoudhury. Save Climate Refugees. 2020. Adobe Illustrator.

Shefali scrambles through her day cooking and cleaning homes in Delhi. It’s backbreaking work that starts at the break of dawn and doesn’t end till well past sundown. But, she didn’t always live this life of a lowly paid, classless migrant worker struggling to make ends meet in a large confounding city. In fact, she and her husband owned land, a store and a fulfilling life in the Sundarbans. But one day, the hungry tide gobbled up their land – taking with it their home, their middle class life and worst of all – their dignity. Her heartbroken husband tried to find work in his beloved Sunderbans but was ultimately resigned to managing a tiny shop in a tiny scrap of land in the Sundarbans, despite the knowledge that this too shall be fodder for a now hostile sea. 

But such is the magnetic draw of the Sundarbans, which I visited a few years ago. This unique region that is now ravenous for land is also great at stealing your heart. So profound is its tranquil beauty. 

Shefali’s story of loss and displacement is just one out of numerous others who have been rendered homeless by the rising sea.

The Sundarbans Mangroves ecoregion on the coast is the world’s largest mangrove ecosystem, with 20,400 square kilometres (7,900 sq mi). Sundarban (সুন্দরবন) in Bengali means “beautiful forest”, named after the dominant mangrove species Heritiera fomes which is locally known as sundari (beautiful).

The Sundarbans are located in what used to be my beloved ancestral homeland of undivided Bengal that was partitioned into present day West Bengal and Bangladesh in 1947. Apart from having once been a sanctuary to the refugees of the bloody partition of India, the Sundarbans is a UNESCO world heritage site and home to the rare Royal Bengal Tigers, Gangetic and Irabati dolphins and other species unique to this region. But human development and climate change with its sea level and surface temperature rise, severe hurricanes and increased salinity could lead to the destruction of 75 percent of these mangroves as the sundari trees are exceptionally sensitive to salinity. This poses a threat not just for the survival of the indigenous flora and fauna but also for the protective biological shield the mangroves form against cyclones and tsunamis, putting the surrounding communities at a devastating risk. The submergence of land mass has already rendered up to 6,000 families homeless and around 70,000 people are now threatened with the same. 

In an ironic twist of fate, the progeny of those who found refuge in this bucolic setting during the partition, are now becoming climate refugees with no place to call home. While we can’t stop the juggernaut of climate change from destroying life as we know it, policies within the GREEN NEW DEAL could potentially provide solutions to reduce the impact of climate change and restore a life of dignity for climate refugees.