When the Goddess Meets the 'Gram
When Pujo meets Instagram, phuchka gets a rebrand, pandal-hopping becomes a content strategy, and every boudi is a potential influencer. A Bangali’s-eye view of what happens when an ancient heritage meets the algorithm
Pujo has been celebrated here with great gusto for decades. There’s a particular flavour to the festivities, with all the ingredients of a good old para (locality) pujo, so dear to the creative Bangali: food, music, dance, art—and the general sense of self-importance that comes with wearing a badge and entering pandals through the ‘VIP gate’.
Until recently, this was a relatively contained affair, drawing weekend visitors from neighbouring areas in search of fish fry and puffy luchis with kosha-mangsho (spicy mutton curry). And then came social media.
Over the past few years, interest in this UNESCO-listed Intangible has mushroomed, with the virtual world descending upon hapless aunties in classic red-bordered white saris, armed with selfie sticks and zoom lenses. Our neighbourhood snacks corner has become a ‘hidden gem’—much to the astonishment of Dadu, its owner, who has spent about a decade blithely serving us potato chop and cutlets refried in oil of unknowable provenance.
The other day, I spotted good old Montu on my feed. His customary grimace had given way to a Colgate-grin as he served jhalmuri (spiced, puffed-rice street snack) with great aplomb to unsuspecting Gen-Zs. Montu has now made the list of ‘10 Things to Do During Pujo’. The world is a better place.
Having finally given up explaining the emotion that is phuchka to a golgappa universe, I find it both gratifying and mildly irritating to see it rebranded as an adorable party snack, served in vodka-shot glasses. Progress, apparently, comes with a garnish.
I am all for this reel-ification of our UNESCO Intangible, ...
Pujo has been celebrated here with great gusto for decades. There’s a particular flavour to the festivities, with all the ingredients of a good old para (locality) pujo, so dear to the creative Bangali: food, music, dance, art—and the general sense of self-importance that comes with wearing a badge and entering pandals through the ‘VIP gate’.
Until recently, this was a relatively contained affair, drawing weekend visitors from neighbouring areas in search of fish fry and puffy luchis with kosha-mangsho (spicy mutton curry). And then came social media.
Over the past few years, interest in this UNESCO-listed Intangible has mushroomed, with the virtual world descending upon hapless aunties in classic red-bordered white saris, armed with selfie sticks and zoom lenses. Our neighbourhood snacks corner has become a ‘hidden gem’—much to the astonishment of Dadu, its owner, who has spent about a decade blithely serving us potato chop and cutlets refried in oil of unknowable provenance.
The other day, I spotted good old Montu on my feed. His customary grimace had given way to a Colgate-grin as he served jhalmuri (spiced, puffed-rice street snack) with great aplomb to unsuspecting Gen-Zs. Montu has now made the list of ‘10 Things to Do During Pujo’. The world is a better place.
Having finally given up explaining the emotion that is phuchka to a golgappa universe, I find it both gratifying and mildly irritating to see it rebranded as an adorable party snack, served in vodka-shot glasses. Progress, apparently, comes with a garnish.
I am all for this reel-ification of our UNESCO Intangible, but it does have side-effects. There are curated walks promising the ‘real Pujo experience’, enthusiastic discoveries of the ‘BTS of Pujo’, and food bloggers peddling anything containing posto (poppy seeds) or shorshe (mustard) as authentic Bengali cuisine. And, of course, everything must be photographed. If it isn’t on Instagram, did it even happen?
I won’t mourn the loss of simplicity or genuineness in the festivities. This is the world we live in; we adapt or perish—or, presumably, go viral. But the sensory overload is real.
Somewhere between answering queries about the “timings for Dhuni pujo” (Dhunuchi naach—incense dance—being Bollywood’s gift to mankind) and fielding requests from content creators to “recreate a Devdas-style Pujo celebration” for a few hours for esteemed VIP guests, one begins to lose the plot. And possibly the will to celebrate.
We are left torn between pride in our heritage and the wish that the world might appreciate it with a little discernment, rather than treat it as an elaborate selfie prop. Pujo is not a content calendar designed to curate FOMO—though that seems to increasingly be the case, across cities.
Until the distinction sinks in, welcome to pujo: where the goddess is worshipped, the phuchka is plated, the boudis are photographed, and we are all just extras in somebody else’s reel.