A car decked out with flowers and foliage for a wedding of the Pathuriaghat Tagore family at Emerald Bower on BT Road in 1929. Courtesy: Srijit Tagore

It’s a tough time for flowers now. We cannot say that flowers and beauty are synonymous any longer, not by the way “flower bouquets”, as they are called, are made and presented. They are either large and hairy as a bush or are wrapped in red cloth rimmed with gold trimming and cellophane. Given such a treatment, even the loveliest of roses would look ugly.

Earlier when guldastas or corsage used to be made in the indigenous style, flowers used to be trimmed with deodar tree leaves. Now things have become even worse, with plastic flowers being widely used at weddings and other ceremonies, and doorways and daises sporting their synthetic charm.

Once cars that carried the bride and bridegroom used to be decked out with flowers and foliage to resemble peacocks with outstretched wings or even a butterfly that inevitably appeared on wedding cards. Now all that the decorators do is to stick flowers or even large bouquets with cellotape on the body of the car.

Once Calcutta was known for its aesthetic sense. Now it has lost that.

For a free lunch

Gatecrashers are never welcome. For most of them are freeloaders, who will eat anything from peanuts to samosas and drink whatever they can lay their hands on. There is a group of such people of various ages, who have, of late, become more and more visible, thanks to the increase in the number of art galleries.

At news conferences, they are the first ones to grab the plates for grub and also the corporate gifts. If ever challenged, they explain without batting an eyelid that they are gentlemen of the Press, naming some obscure newsletter to support their claim. They would make a beeline for the eats once these are served, and apart from stuffing their face, they would stuff their pockets too.

Liquor served at some exclusive parties and openings draw even more gatecrashers. Somehow they get wind even when these parties are by invitation only. For a couple of wets they would go to any length.

One of the gatecrashers, benign, ever-smiling and resembling fish brought out of the refrigerator seconds earlier, would ask learned questions at press conferences. One cannot miss the pair of tall, thin bespectacled men, perhaps twins, who would make an appearance even when previews are held in distant corners of the EM Bypass. Nothing is inedible for these two “camels”.

Then there is the middle-aged couple, the man saturnine, the wife in a frock, gangling and cross-eyed. Some of them have become such familiar faces, that even foreign diplomats acknowledge their presence.

All gatecrashers have to be good and intrepid conversationalists and mixers. It is their bread and butter.

Freedom from laws

The night before, holes had been dug up on road surfaces and makeshift goalposts driven in in every neighbourhood of central Calcutta. The Independence Day morning began with the loudspeakers “hello hello”-ing, followed by long rambling speeches by our so-called local netas, all of whom made loud protestations of their patriotism, in case anybody had any doubts about their integrity, happily shattering all the laws on decibel levels in the process.

Soon afterwards, the football matches began with the para hooligans blocking roads and alleyways. A running commentary was broadcast on the loudspeaker.

The evening was reserved for song and dance. The parking lot in front of Elite cinema adjacent to the Calcutta Municipal Corporation headquarters, a couple of steps away from the thana had turned into a disc. It was actually the dais from which the netas had waxed eloquent in the morning.

A spindly young thing in black jeans writhed like a centipede to the blaring cacophony. Hundreds of men surrounded the dais gaping at the girl who was finding it increasingly difficult to keep going in the heat. A few blocks away, some young men were going through similar gestures marking their freedom from rhyme and reason.

(Contributed by Soumitra Das)