Beguines – One of the Oldest Women’s Movement

I learned about Beguinages for the first time last year while visiting Delft, Netherlands. It wasn’t called a Beguinage, rather Klaeushofje in Dutch (a courtyard of 12 houses for Catholic single women), established in 1605. I had no idea that it was part of an order, or something important in world history. The courtyard was not a large one but it had small apartments surrounded by gardens that are open to public. I was just thrilled to visit a courtyard that was originally built in 1605 and still retained the ancient essence of that era.

Cut to 2021 – we made a day trip from Brussels to another ancient city in Belgium – Leuven, just 26 kms away. As I always research a bit before a trip, Leuven seemed to be insistent on a visit of the Grand Beguinage (Groot Begijnhof). Intrigued at having learned a new term, I looked up Beguinages on the internet. The extent of history that came up is stunning and awe-inspiring.

The Beguine movement started in the 12th century when single women (unmarried/widowed) decided to form a community and live in a semi-religious environment. Women were supposed to live and be cared for by their father/brother, husband or son. The only other choice they had was to become a nun. Doesn’t the first part sound pretty familiar even in the 21st century in most parts of the world? However, at the beginning of the 12th century, single women in the ‘low countries’ (Netherlands, Flanders, Belgium) had few options to survive in the patriarchal society. The convents were mostly full and could not accommodate most of them. They started to devote their life to serve the poor and work for the society without taking religious vows. A new lay religious order was created under Christianity, termed Beguines. They were pious and religious but weren’t bound by the rules of the convent. The Beguines could leave the order at any point of time and get married to start a family. It was more of a spiritual order than a religious one. Some Beguinages were built by the local town officials while others were built by the Christian authorities to house these women. The Beguinages are a beautiful example of communal living by, for and of women. They were architectural marvels as well. The structure included huge open spaces, gardens and cobbled pathways around each house/apartment. The houses were very similarly constructed to each other to impart that community vibe. Bit of utopian socialism in the 13th century, eh? But like every other movement, the Beguines declined since the Council of Vienne by the Catholic church in 1312. Their ambiguous religious status created confusion in the society and in some regions, Beguines were termed obnoxiously religious as well. Marguerite Porete, a mystic Beguine was burned in Paris in 1310 on charges of heresy. Most Beguine orders were absorbed into Christianity hence but some of them survived, especially in Belgium and Netherlands. The last traditional Beguine passed away in 2013 in Kortrijk, Belgium.

We made it a point not to miss the Grand Beguinage in Leuven. It was established in 1232 and is one of the oldest Beguinages in Western Europe. The gate mentions the date it was built and leads to the St. John’s the Baptist Church post the entrance.

None of the oldest houses exist in the Beguinage now. They were demolished and rebuilt in the 16th century during the religious upheaval. There are around 100 houses nestled within 12 alleyways that surround them, including bridges on a narrow portion of river Dijle. It is almost a little town in its own right. I particularly love the local and traditional Flemish Baroque architecture from the 16th-17th century, that is evident in these houses. There are hand pumps and wells from bygone eras that remind of the life Beguines had.

This Beguinage was in dire state in the 196os as the inhabitants couldn’t maintain the ancient houses in their deplorable financial state. The Catholic University of Leuven purchased the property and restored the houses. They turned quite a few apartments into housing for students and visiting professors. The premise is accessible for public viewing but most of the houses are private now. The site was announced as a U|NESCO World Heritage site in 1998.

Did you know? One of the most famous personalities of the Beguine order was Dorothy Day, the American journalist, anarchist and activist?

This post is part of Blogchatter Half Marathon

Le Mur des Je T’aime

Loosely translated to ‘The Wall of Love,’ this installation is pure love at Montmartre, Paris. I have been to the city thrice now and visited this wall on our second outing. A search for ‘unusual places to see in Paris’ led to this and we didn’t budge once to skip it. The weather in April is usually pleasant but 2019 saw a mini heatwave and we were exhausted after a hike in the morning to the Sacre Cœur Basilica. A long walk down through the winding lanes of Montmartre led to this refreshing Wall of Love. This was conceptualised by Frederic Baron and executed by calligrapher and mural artiste Claire Kito. There is ‘I Love You’ written in 250 languages for 311 times on 612 tiles of enamelled lava. It was installed in 2000. The beautiful quote on the top says ‘aimer c’est du dèsordre…alors aimons!’ – “Love is a disorder, so let’s love!”

Do you spot আমি তোমাকে ভালবাসি (I love you) in my mother language Bangla, right in the middle? It was so heartwarming and emotionally overwhelming to find your own among 250 other languages from the whole wide world. It’s a one-of-a-kind moment when a part of your social identity is recognised in other continents. I think we stood there for a few minutes, soaking it all in, letting ourselves flow in that moment. It was surreal.

This post is a part of Blogchatter Half Marathon.

Trams – Joining Calcutta and Europe

When I was a suburban, stodgy kid, I used to wait for our trips to Calcutta for the occasional tram rides. The joyrides used to be sparse though, since we’d be pressed for time to return to our suburban abode, or we might have been visiting some part of the city not connected by trams. The scenario improved when we moved to Calcutta in 1998. It was by sheer luck that we rented a house around 300 metres from the Ballygunge Tram Depot. I would have loved to take the tram every day enroute to my school in Kidderpore, but time was a constraint to romanticism. I had to give in to the mundane daily drill of the school bus and its irritating co-passengers. As a countermeasure, I began to commute to the private tuitions via tram, whenever possible. Sometimes, the route would be from Ballygunge to Tollygunge, where I would alight at Rashbehari to walk the rest of the part. Since this is one of the busiest junctions in the city, the journey would consume quite some time and I loved sitting idly at one of the windows, watching the rest of the world rushing by the street. The gong of the tram would alert few crossing pedestrians, would scare a few and be a fair bit of warning for private buses and vehicles. That window seat meant a different world to me, sitting in a comfort zone, separated from the chaos outside. Recollecting about the other routes – I have hopped trams too, taking one from College Street in the North, dropping off in Park Circus and taking another till Ballygunge. That one used to be a long ride but quite enjoyable through the busy criss-crossing roads in the North, widening up as we approach the Central towards South Calcutta. It would be unfair if I miss mentioning the Maidan tram depot, one of the picturesque ones in the city, within the greens. It’s a delight to watch the trams slowly emerging at a snail’s pace from their depot at Maidan, much like a caterpillar. I spotted one recently, on one of my trips to the Government offices in Esplanade. Didn’t have the time to hop onto one though. Sadly, I still haven’t clicked a single decent photo of trams in Calcutta.

Did you know? The Tram system in Calcutta is the only existing one in India and the oldest operating network in Asia. It goes back to 1873 starting with horse-drawn trams and moved on to electric trams in 1902.

I was obviously delighted when we moved to Brussels as it has an extensive tram network. Although we use the metro rail more than the tram within the city for convenience, I like the trams in Belgium. They’re a bit too modernised in the interior, thus missing the old world charm emanated by the trams in Calcutta. We have been fortunate enough to visit other cities in Europe that have an operating tramway. From the glamorous red trams in Den Haag to the dazzling yellow in Budapest, from pristine serious trams in Amsterdam to cute ones in Prague and red-white beauties in Vienna – we have seen, ridden and loved them all. I’d like to explore more of them, in other cities that we haven’t visited and collect a lifetime of memories in trams.

Do you like trams? Have you been on a ride ever? Share your experiences in comments. I’d love to know.

This post is a part of Blogchatter Half Marathon.

Spring, Summer, Monsoon

Do seasons have an unsettling impact on you, year after year? It’s not always the disturbing kind of effect, rather some inexplicable transition in the overall mood and essence of living. It might not happen to everyone, but I’d like to believe that seasons and climates stir and muddle a lot of emotions in me. Growing up in India, I’ve learned that there are six seasons – spring, summer, monsoon, autumn, pre-winter and winter. I can vouch having witnessed all six of them at least till two decades ago. Spring and pre-winter (called Hemanta in Bangla) were the two most enigmatic seasons in my childhood. Hemanta was a very dainty season, fragile in its appearance, ever so transient for a few days post autumn. From mid-October till the beginning of December, the air at dawn would be laden with fine dew droplets, drenching flowers in the garden, rendering everything fresh. Those few days would perceive a subtle change with a nip in the morning air. The pre-winter sun would mellow down and turn a little yolky late morning. Just as Kali pujo/Diwali passed every year, people in West Bengal would gear up for the diaphanous pre-winter season, prepping to collect date palm sap to be turned into jaggery. No wonder M’s father was named Hemanta as he was born on 2nd November.

Spring has been more conspicuous to me as I lived out of India, in the US, UK and now Belgium. The passage from winter to spring is almost like a shock in the upper parts of Northern Hemisphere. Since winter is often harsh and beating, spring appears as a big relief with a platter of colours and flowers. There’s a bit of sunshine thrown in too for good measures. Leaves spring out of nowhere on seemingly dead trees, tulips galore in most places; surprisingly the city councils and communes gear up to plant new saplings in all cul-de-sacs and public gardens. It is indeed surprising to me, as I’d love to see municipalities in Indian cities invest just that fragment on public environment.

I like spring. I like the freshness in the air, still crisp and cold though if you are in Europe. It might even snow and yet it is spring. I have missed the chance to click snow on tulips this year. Spring has been instrumental in instilling some hope post humid and horribly cold winters for the past few years. I’d even go so far as to proclaim that spring is my go-to season these days. I stayed in Calcutta this spring and it was almost non-existent to a saddening point, barring a few Laburnum and Palash/Butea blooms.

Summer – the least of my favourites in the Indian sub-continents. Every chore I do in Indian summer has the propensity to leave me drenched in sweat and panting for breath. Summers are harsh here, in this part of the world and global warming is making it worse every year. The season wasn’t this bad though three decades ago. The unbearable heat of the day would be cooled off by breezes and Norwesters that we fondly term Kalboishakhi in Bengal. Dark clouds and thunders rumbling would take off the heat from the earth and bring some relief. They have become rare though. We hardly had two or three Kalboishakhi this year with just temporary respite. I know people who detest winter and love summer. My sympathies are with them, I cannot stand the scorch.

Monsoon is one of my favourite seasons in India. I have grown up being enamoured by the monsoon in Bengal, revelling in the thunderstorms, the cooled down climate, the impromptu khichuri-machh bhaja lunches and watching the incessant rains by the window. Monsoon used to last for more than two months in Bengal with intermittent sunny, balmy days. The seasons have all been jumbled up now with environmental disruptions. This year, monsoon has arrived at the predicted time but it is sporadic. In monsoon, Calcutta appears like a newly washed kid after playing in the mud with schoolmates. It gets dirty, too, and that part is not adorable at all. I loved the monsoon in Bombay as well, although that turns out to be disastrous most of the years, tending to flood. The season was far more enjoyable in Pune. Monsoon came with a flourish in that city, with the nearby Western Ghat hills sprucing up in their green finery. The weather cooled down to the level of bringing out quilts and devouring cups of caffeine throughout the day with various fried food. We had made some amazing trips to the hills of Malshej and Khandala in monsoon.

This year is half gone already and I have experienced these three seasons here in Calcutta. I’d love to spend another favourite season, autumn, in Brussels though as there are endless opportunities to admire nature’s beauty and click photographs. Which is your favourite season? Let me know in the comments.

This post is a part of Blogchatter Half Marathon.

What do you do, to live?

Death makes a person cold. Not the one who died, but some of those left behind. There’s a stone coldness in few people that is brought out to striking daylights with the death of a loved one. They struggle to cope, to accept the absence of the person closest to them. In this constant endeavour to ‘return’ to normal life, they lose any warmth left in their character. It depends a lot on the definition of ‘normal life.’ It’s quite normal that we would grieve a loss and the life we carry on after a loved one’s death, is normal in its own way. A ‘new normal’ that lets you accept facts gradually and tweak living accordingly.

I have been in the realisation of something for quite a while now and it deepened slowly in the last four months of my stay in Calcutta. Most people around me are living in their own way, within the cocoon of a comfort zone. It is often the eat-work-sleep-repeat routine that burns them out near the end of their work life. The ennui that a routine creates is very stifling to me. If I were to just eat-work-sleep-repeat, I’d burn out much sooner than my retirement age. I believe that every person should be able to do something in their daily routine to feed their creative self. Now, you might disagree and debate, that in this already distressing scenario, what is the role of art?

If you just give it a passing thought – art is not exclusive to galleries or theatres or concerts. A bit of art is present in all our daily lives to push us through in anticipation of tomorrow. And it need just be something tangible, to show off the creative angle of your persona. It could even be a thought, a few kind words to a stranger or something that you might find insignificant. I know someone who places a bowl of water in their balcony everyday in summer for birds. It gives them immense satisfaction to wake up listening to a dulcet conference of birds in their balcony, around the water. When I’m in Brussels, I go for long walks in the evenings, often not regimentally in a park but aimlessly in the quiet streets. If the weather is pleasant, I sit somewhere and soak in the sun, mostly in winters. On days that I feel dejected, I stop somewhere in the track and stare at the Art Nouveau/Art Deco houses. I believe I have even spoken to the stone gargoyles and motifs on them, just asking how they have been through the past century. This isn’t ‘art’, no, I wouldn’t call it that. But it is a way to do something different than my daily drill. Sometimes, I’d click a photo on my mobile and it has thus remained as a warm piece of memory, to be thawed and savoured on absolutely downcast days.

I’m grateful to my parents for having inculcated the idea of a hobby in my early years. I think it was part of the Bengali culture, at least till half a century ago, to introduce children into some form of hobby that would sustain them forever. It was looked upon as something that would save your life from the clutches of a regimen. I was encouraged to read, listen to music and watch movies. I began writing much later and was interested in embroidery watching Ma and my paternal aunts. I’ve been living on and off it for years, neglecting embroidery while being immersed in ‘life.’ It took a pandemic to instil the habit of stitching for at least half an hour every day as a mode of creating something by forming colours and patterns on fabric. I looked forward to that time in the evening or late afternoon post work when I’d be able to pick up on an unfinished part of the pattern and progress bit by bit. Once a pattern was complete, it would bring unprecedented joy and fulfilment. I’d suggest you pick up a hobby, it might be anything, as long as you look forward to it post work and household chores.

I did this satin stitch leaf yesterday on a used, washed fabric mask using Ma’s leftover shaded floss. It’s not perfect and I’m not very happy with the precision, but it is something. I did this bit that made me feel a little more alive and handy. What do you do, to live? I’d love to know, share in the comments.

This post is a part of Blogchatter Half Marathon.

1947 – A Love Story

He was 31, she was 22. They were married in August, 1947. If you are an Indian like me, you’d be wondering about the date. Was it 15th August, 1947? As some would joke now, did the country’s independence bring an end to a handsome bachelor’s? I’m not sure about the date either, since celebrating wedding anniversaries weren’t a trend back then. No one cared to document the date and event later. And yet, it must have been an important wedding as the bride’s father soon swore-in as the state’s first Education Minister. The bride was a demure girl, younger on the rung of two elder brothers and six sisters. She was a not-so-beautiful girl, neither fair complexioned like her brothers or elder sisters, but had an endearing smile to win over hearts. I have seen her fading aura while she was above sixty years old in my childhood. He, on the other hand, had a carefree, jovial personality, slightly mired by a mountain of familial responsibilities throughout his life. They are my late maternal grandparents – Gour Mohan and Smritimoyee Basu.

Within a few years of marriage, around 1950

The story began when the handsome boy from a village named Saidpur near Taki (North 24 Parganas, West Bengal) decided to graze greener pastures in Calcutta for education and employment. He completed a degree in Commerce and a diploma later in Chartered Secretaryship. He began working in Calcutta, gradually transporting his younger brothers too from Saidpur so that they could receive the education he wished for them. A few years passed by, the World War II began and its impacts were on Calcutta as well. The modest rural band of brothers struggled to make its ends meet in the city while their parents were still in Saidpur. Gour Mohan was the eldest, he began working already during the war. The second sibling Nitindranath went for a technical training course at the Indian Technical Institute soon after. The other two were quite young then. Third in the line, Pulakendranath enrolled in Indian Army as a foot soldier and the youngest, Ajit Kumar would later start his practice as a homeopathy doctor. The brothers would visit the village at every occasion, especially Durgapujo. Gour Mohan and his bride would grace the family group photograph along with their sister, Sujata and her children. The younger brothers would be married much later though.

At the back (l-r)- Gour Mohan, Nitindranath, Sujata, Smritimoyee, Pulakendranath
Seated in front: Dharendranath, Sujata’s children and Rani Basu.

Smritimoyee as a young bride, was perhaps a little terrified of her mother-in-law, Rani. Could a bride from the city adjust into the rural life of domestication? As far as I’ve heard, Dida fit herself well into the new ambiance and nursed her mother-in-law well when she was terribly sick. Her brother-in-laws were truly fond of her and respected her. And Dadu was probably smitten with her, or so he looks in the photographs!

Dida was a little frail in health, she would tire easily and couldn’t cook for longer durations. Dadu would visit the markets and grocery stores, sweet shops and the occasional telebhaja. Every time he went out, he would ask Dida, “Ki aante hobe?” (What should I buy?) They had their share of daily banters, not bitter or aggressive ones, but the mild, dulcet kind, that we term as ‘khunshuti‘ in Bangla. Since I was very young, I would wonder at times about these fights. Now that I’m growing older in my marriage, I realise it’s a part of the package and it’s fun at times! I’m sure we’d make memories too, like the photo below that Dadu had cherished to present to his beloved wife. Just gazing at the writing from around seventy years ago fills my heart with emotions that I haven’t been able to fathom till now.

Dadu passed away in 1995 and Dida in 1998. I still miss them.

This post is a part of Blogchatter Half Marathon.

All images above are from family archive and copyright protected. Please do not steal/share/distort.

Lockdown Lores

With over two months of confinement, life in the era of lockdown deserves its own epic. Almost everyone has realised something new in them and emerged with traits they probably didn’t know existed. We have learned to cook, clean, wash, stitch on our own and most importantly, co-exist with others under the same roof for days, months now. At times, it feels like a crash-course in evolution within a cave, as there is danger lurking outside (a virus in this case). Our caves have become havens, cohabitation is the norm – to the dislike of many – as I witness these days. As unprecedented in a century, it is unimaginable that stepping out of one’s house could be life-threatening. But, adaptation is an inherent trait of humans and now it seems these norms existed forever, life before lockdown appears on the other side of a magnifying lens, constricting to an unrecognisable molecule.

It took a pandemic to unleash a trickle of compassion into a country for migrant labourers and people suffering due to the lockdown. There are outrages on social and print media, so strong that they would melt even the stone-hearted. But very few offer a concrete solution and very few can extract something out of our megalomaniac government. Pieces of news or stories as they are termed by the media, keep floating around like photons in the air. They cling to you the first thing since you wake up from a slumber each morning. A good sleep is as elusive as the idea of it; hence, millions of worries churn into a perturbed slumber in all the hours of the nights. Each time you open your eyes and check the electronic devices, a little this and a little that seeps in via audio and visuals. It takes an entire day to tile those pieces into a jigsaw puzzle of death and anguish. Most of us haven’t seen a war in our lives; yet, this pandemic is turning into one so huge that wartime measures are employed. I hadn’t imagined in any nightmare that each day would begin with checking the death counters around the world and praying they come down soon.

It also took a pandemic to make people realise the worth of time, now that we seem to have surplus. Many have begun reading, re-reading, teaching how to read and trying to read. This is one of the best outcomes of confinement. Most people have realised the worth of labour, now that they have to endure a teeny bit of it in household chores. Quite a few privileged souls like us have begun to appreciate nature more than ever. The wedges of time saved from commute and rush are well utilised into long walks in the parks and admiration of glazing greens at the prime of spring. Nature this year is behaving like the drunken peacock dancing away in the anticipation of rain and love, oblivious of its surroundings. The flowers are more colourful than ever, the trees are a bursting green this spring and all the birds sound like they’re auditioning for faunal concerts. Life is still beautiful, albeit with a mask and super careful social distancing.

It took a pandemic to realise we’re still alive and thank heavens or whoever for that little favour. Hold onto life as of now and enjoy the little wonders of staying alive that might disappear again once we are back to ‘normalcy.’

Mahalaya, The Grand Beginning of Durga Pujo

Shiuli/Parijaat/Nyctanthes

How does nostalgia treat you? Is it like a spouse, lingering around, making space into your psyche, or like a distant lover, appearing only in turns? Mine is mostly like the latter, fleeting sporadically with a whiff of fragrance like the Shiuli flowers.

Mahalaya for Bengalis is a huge chunk of nostalgia that hovers before the onset of autumn. Marking the termination of Pitripaksha (fortnight of the forefathers), this day has its own significance within different communities. For us, it marks the beginning of Debipaksha (fortnight of the goddess) and eventually Durga Pujo, for others, the start of Navratri. Apart from these religious and spiritual habits, Mahalaya is solely important to a lot of Bengalis for a radio programme called Mahishasurmardini. This incredible show was curated and performed first in 1932 and is enthralling millions since then. It was recorded for the first time in 1946 so that pre-independence riots do not hamper the performance at dawn (source from Twitter). The Aagomoni songs for welcome of Durga into her parents’ abode take a backstage to the brilliant chanting of stotras by the legend called Birendra Krishna Bhadra. The resonance in his voice is something one can’t miss during Mahalaya each year. It gives me goosebumps for sure.

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5 Must See Statues in Prague

Growing up in India, statues or sculptures always meant commemorating historical stalwarts and landmarks that we can add later to our postal addresses. In all seriousness, I had never heard of modern art/installations in public places in India while I was young. For us Calcuttans, the biggest statue is the Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose one at a five point crossing in Shyambazar. I even doubt if it was installed for the sole purpose of creating a landmark for the important crossing of five roads. Much later while I lived in Pune, I’ve often heard people doling out directions like – “Turn left at the Shivaji ka putla.” It took me a while to figure out that the mentioned ‘putla’ is a bronze statue, installed at the corner of a bridge, while wondering if it was a shop selling Shivaji inspired figurines.

Europe, on the other hand, has been much experimental with statues/sculptures/fountains and I have been fortunate enough to be able to visit and admire a few of them in awe. Surprisingly, Prague turned out to be a haven of sculptures, even while it is called the city of a thousand spires. The main reason behind this revolution is sculptor David Cerny. Frankly, I learned about him only recently, after having seen photos and videos from people visiting Prague. There is no disagreement on the fact that Indian visitors to Europe were sparse before the EU and Schengen visa for 28 countries happened. And now there’s a boom! So, here we go, my pick of the five must-see statues in Prague.

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Zika Virus Prevention in India : Are You Aware Of It?

In the past few years, India has been plagued with diseases that involve unique and less known viruses from around the world. We’ve always been wary of mosquitoes that are part and parcel of our sub-tropical climate. They are the carriers of most viruses and have been wreaking havoc since decades, mostly without being detected. Dengue, kala-azar, yellow fever, Malaria and the likes have taken away several lives when treatment was sparse in the early 20th century. Growing up in West Bengal, we have been using a mosquito net since forever and while it is irksome to manage, it has probably prevented quite a few diseases. But the usage is getting rare these days as it is an inconvenient and confined measure to prevent the mosquitoes and more families are opting for other convenient methods.

Zika virus : The rise and spread

I wasn’t aware of the Zika virus until a few years ago but now I know that it was discovered long ago in Africa, though it also has an Asian strain. It was limited to Africa until 2007 and began spreading in Asia post that. Zika virus is transmitted through the mosquito species Aedes aegypti that also carries deadly viruses of Dengue, Malaria and Chikun guniya. The mosquitoes bite an infected human and then a non-infected one to transmit the virus. While it has always been prevalent in Africa, only a few cases have been recorded in India yet. But don’t let that fact deter you from gathering prevention from Zika virus as there is no vaccine invented yet.

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