Growing up as a single child in a middle-class north Kolkata household was mostly pleasant. The absence of squabbles with siblings and the undivided attention of parents seemed like a gift from God. But come Bhai Phonta, this gift would take the shape of a curse.
The occasion would always make me hesitate. When I would go to school the next day, my friends would beam with joy, as if the early morning routine suddenly became too easy for them.
While they exuberantly shared their experiences of how they woke up early for their brother’s visit, I would feel left out. I had no brother to eagerly wait for, no one to giggle with while putting a phonta on, and no exchanging of gifts to fill in the void.
Until, one day, my mother noticed me moping around the house while she put on her pink sari — the one I swore I would steal when I grew up — to visit my mamabari.
A picture of my mother on bhai phonta after her family relocated to Barasat from Guwahati, years before her marriage. Sourced by the correspondent
I was probably nine or ten years old at the time. My mother pulled me from the bed with a jolt and rummaged through her steel almirah for my yellow frock — the one I had a love-hate relationship with. And that’s how I began visiting my mamabari on Bhai Phonta, and my maternal grandfather became the sibling I missed on such festivals.
Now, I’m left with vague memories of the Bhai Phontas I spent with him. But some images still flash before my eyes. I can see my dadu sitting in his rocking chair on the balcony, swaying gently while waiting for our arrival. As our van approached, I would peek out eagerly, and without fail, he’d spot us first, getting up from his chair and calling out for dida.
There are some signature acts people pull off that cannot be mistaken for others. For me, it was spamming the doorbell downstairs, instantly alerting our tenants that I had arrived, almost as if announcing the homecoming of a hero!
The centre table in the living room would be loaded with sweets from my favourite mishti’r dokan near Chapadali More. My dida, who passed away years later, would be sitting on a sofa. And my dadu? He’d be waiting with that familiar glint in his eyes, teasing me about whether I remember all the steps of the ritual. One by one, my dida’s brothers and my mother’s cousins would arrive, filling the house with laughter.
My maternal grandparents at their home in Barasat Sourced by the correspondent
Once maa decided to dress me in a yellow sari for the occasion. Dadu laughed seeing me draped awkwardly in it, one end pinned with every safety pin maa could find around the house. “Eto boro hoye gechhis!” he said, his smile stretching across his wrinkled face as he held my chin. I’d sit cross-legged before him as maa arranged the phonta thala — a brass plate with chandan, ghee, honey, kajal, dhaan and dubbo.
The room would fill with the faint fragrance of incense and ghee, the ceiling fan turning lazily as if time itself had slowed down to watch the rituals. Maa would guide me through the mantra, and I’d repeat with childlike seriousness. With trembling fingers, I’d put the phonta on dadu’s forehead — three small dots, each matching the round shape of my fingertip. The catch? Instead of saying “bhaiyer kopale dilam phonta”, my mother would pause mid-sentence and ask me to replace the word bhai with dadu.
He would close his eyes for a moment, as if he was receiving a blessing from a child.
Then came the best part — the bhog. The dining table would groan under the weight of luchi, chholar dal, phulkopi’r torkari, pulao, and payesh. My mama would tease me about how I gave dadu a “powerful phonta” that would make him live 100 years. We’d all laugh, and dadu would play along, and I would bask in the unbound joy that I felt nowhere else.
Those were simpler days, the kind that now live only in tiny fragments of memory.
Years later, after dadu was gone, Bhai Phonta lost its charm for me. I stopped visiting mama bari for the occasion because it wasn’t the same anymore. Still, every year, on that day, I reminisce in the memories. I whisper the same prayer my mother once taught me, not for a long life for dadu, but for his peace.
Bhai Phonta, for me, will always be the day I got to bless the man who blessed my entire childhood.