Somashis Gupta, Editor, Epic Words shares this narrative as we celebrate the festive season of Bhoot Chaturdoshi, Dipaboli and Kali Pujo.
I was sitting there, happily ensconced in my armchair with the morning paper, sipping tea, when in comes Rene, her eyes bright with curiosity, and fires off a question out of nowhere.
“Papa, what is Bhoot Chotur? Is it, like, a holiday for intelligent ghosts?”
Well, that did it. I almost choked on my tea, laughing, and said, “Oh, love, it’s Bhoot Chaturdashi, not some ghost exam results day!”
Rene’s face twisted in puzzlement. “So… what’s it all about, then?”
“Ah, now that’s a question!” I folded my paper, ready for a bit of fatherly lecture. “It’s a special night in the Bengali calendar, celebrated on the 14th day of Krishna Pokhho, the dark fortnight, just a day before Kali Puja. You could say it’s our homegrown version of Halloween.”
“So, it’s a rip-off of Halloween, then?” she asked, squinting.
I raised an eyebrow. “Not in the slightest, my dear. Bhoot Chaturdashi has been haunting our history long before Halloween became all pumpkins and pillowcases in the West.”
“Ohhh…” She nodded, looking duly impressed, though I suspect it was mostly for my benefit.
“On this night, it’s believed that the boundary between our world and the spirit world is at its flimsiest, like a dodgy old curtain in a haunted house. So, we Bengalis light fourteen little diya lamps to help guide the spirits of our choddo purush—that’s fourteen generations of our forefathers—safely home. And, of course, it helps to light up every dark corner, just to keep any unwanted ghoulies from getting ideas.”
“So it’s like, what, a pre-Diwali clean-up?” Rene smirked.
“Spot on! But here’s the real fun,” I leaned in. “Do you know we Bengalis have quite a few types of ghosts?”
Her eyes widened. “What? You mean to say one type wasn’t enough, then? We’ve got a whole bloomin’ collection?”
“Oh, yes,” I chuckled. “There are Petnis, the lady ghosts who aren’t the types you’d want over for tea; they’re rather cross, you see. Then we’ve got Doittyo, giants of the spirit world—big chaps, make you look twice. Nishis are the night prowlers, whispering your name till you lose your way. And then there’s the Brahmodaittyo, the scholarly ghosts, usually Brahmins, who apparently don’t let a little thing like being dead get in the way of a good lecture!”
Rene’s mouth hung open, halfway between fascination and horror, but I wasn’t done yet.
“We’ve also got Gechho bhoot, the tree dwellers—your local branch managers, if you will. Then there’s Mamdo bhoot, the spirits of our Muslim neighbours, and finally, the crème de la crème of Bengali ghostdom, the Mechho Bhoot, who has only one priority in the afterlife: fish.”
“Papa, if loving fish is all it takes, I’m a Mecho Bhoot myself!” Rene squealed with laughter. Suddenly, she spun on her heels and, to my surprise, started chanting as she skipped off towards her mother, singing, “I am a mecho bhoot, La Rey La! I’m the cutest of the cute, La Rey La! Give me my fish, or I shall shoot!”
And off she went, chanting her song, leaving me to wonder if I’d just raised the world’s most enthusiastic fish-loving ghost. Ah, family traditions—Bengali style!
