If you have ever visited Jagacha, a small town in Howrah, you must have heard of this area’s decades-old Charaker Mela, which has somehow shaped and given this place an identity.
Charak Dangar Maath, the locality I grew up in, was named after this yearly festival celebrated on Chaitra Sankranti (the last day of the Bengali year) — mostly in rural Bengal and parts of Bangladesh.
Walking through this fair now feels different from how it was in the past. What once was a space for rituals, performances, and fervent devotion, now seems like a cheerful little fair that no longer demands painstaking penance from the locals. Still, faint echoes from the past linger between food stalls and fair rides.
My hometown has evolved rapidly over the years. From highways to the rise of e-commerce and the construction of ‘modern’ residential complexes, this quaint little town has nearly shed its hamlet facade. Yet, we still look forward to this fair, which lasts only a couple of hours on the evening of April 14 and draws an average footfall of around 1,200 to 1,300 people every year.
Small makeshift shops — mostly set up by locals — start frying batches of syrup-soaked jalebis, at least a day before Charak. My grandmother, who is a patient of Type 2 Diabetes and can no longer walk on her own, waits for me all day to at least get her a piece of jalebi.
While taking a few quick bites of those sugar-dipped jalebis, I listen to Amma (grandmother) recount old stories of Charak — of bohurupi performers slipping into divine disguises, of the daring jhaap, and of all-night pala gaan that once kept the entire town awake, wrapped in myth, music, and memory.
For a Gen Z like me, such an earthy yet flamboyant festivity somehow never seems to fit into this urban, hyper-driven, and alienated era. Yet I prefer to stay at home on this day anyway, every year, just to welcome summer in a rather mythical way.
Except for the pala gaan performances, most rituals have dissolved over time. If I recall correctly, the last time I saw a group of bohurupis going door to door, filling the alleyways with their vocals, was sometime in the early 2000s.
In the fading shards of my memory, they would call out to the dozing locality in the late afternoon, asking for a chance to perform their act. I have never witnessed jhaap; they only survive in stories for me.
Pala gaan is probably the only ritual that has managed to survive in my locality. These all-night performances — attended by a huge crowd even today — involve the rhythmic singing and recitation of mythological tales, often centred around Hindu deities.
What else?
The evening unfolds with a rather cacophonous, choppy announcement by one of our parar kakus, who keeps calling (yelling) on the entire neighbourhood to visit the mela at least once.
From plastic toy stalls and bangle shops to phuchka vendors and newly added mocktail and momo counters, most are set up by our neighbours — so every time we stop by a stall, we’re greeted with familiar faces.
It has become a customary habit of mine to stroll through the entire arena at least thrice, despite the patchy weather.
Apart from the jalebi, the Charaker Mela in my locality boasts rather unconventional snacks — spicy eggs, alur dom and papad — all of which tend to sell out in no time.
As candy floss and balloons sway in the evening air, Charaker Mela comes to a close and summer quietly enters Bengal, leaving people of Jagacha in Howrah to wait a whole year to celebrate this lowkey mela — one that, for the rest of the year, almost no one talks about.
I’ll wait for my Amma to rekindle the nostalgic tales of this mela — for another year, again.