Kolkata threw off its westernised look for one day and returned to its ethnic Calcutta look as Saraswati (to be pronounced Shoroswati) Pooja was celebrated amidst gaiety - more so since it fell on a Sunday. It was a refreshing change from the modern, secular Nehru's India to the traditional, orthodox Gandhi's India. Each house, each para celebrated the festival and everybody looked happy - rich and poor, young and old - all alike, as they made offerings and prayed before the austerely beautiful goddess of art and learning. There were idols placed in each lane, the sizes depending on the locality as they ranged from big idols in big pandals of the rich (where her arch rival Lakshmi resided) to the small clay idols in her make-shift abode of banana leaves. The flowers, incense sticks and perfumes people put on, mixed to give a different smell to the otherwise rotten surroundings. For once the smell of different mixtures of rotting vegetables, human and animal urine, various chicken and mutton preparations gave way to something more bearable.

Students prayed for success in examinations (though it was a department attributed more to Lord Ganesha), the poets for their poetry, the painters for their paintings, the authors for their books, college students for getting a job or clearing some ATKT, everybody prayed for something related to art and learning. It's the same everywhere, people go to temples like a customer goes to a shop, they give money and ask for something or the other. The goddess Saraswati looked around; with her big black eyes, riding a swan as fair as her face, a sweet smile on her face as she played the veena with long artistic fingers; very serenely. She listened to everybody (even the koi kahe kehta rahen, kitna bhi humko deewana blaring from various loudspeakers) - and promised nothing.

There were alpanas in rice-paste lined up in front of each idol and some dog-eared engineering books with some kumkum and turmeric hiding the name of the author with flowers strewn around, telling tales of a recent pooja by some would be (would have been?) engineer.

It is said that Kolkatans love festivities - especially if they get a holiday from their work. Saraswati Pooja provided a reason - though unfortunately for them it came on a Sunday.

Gone was the western wear - those tight jeans and tighter shorter T-shirts sketching each and every curve of the body replaced by something very ethnic, very Indian, very Kolkatan. Men were clad in dhotis and designer kurtas. The kurtas has embroidered fronts or fully painted fronts with some historic buildings and looked like the bundees of Shivaji's mavalas with strings to tie the flaps at the fronts. The dhotis (for those who wore them) were the typically Kolkatan dhotis and if I had a camera, I would have clicked the essential Bengali for you.

He stood there in a cream kurta with a half jacket, a Capstan peeping from the pocket. The dhoti was a starched white one with a golden yellow and red border. One end of the dhoti, pleated like a fan, was balanced on his forearm as both his hands were engrossed in eating jhalmuri. He stood there still - not knowing where to go or what to do - as many Kolkatans generally feel and are not bothered about that feeling in any way - at the junction of Ashutosh Mukherjee road and Hazra road, and looking kind of lost and relaxed.

The difference of the day was really heightened by the womenfolk who came out dressed in saris - from school girls to elderly women - everyone was in saris. My not-too-sure-knowledge of saris would only guess at them being Calcutta cotton (evident by the sheer bloating of the starched cotton) or in silk. The predominant colours were black with red borders or bright yellow ones, as custom demanded.

They would have spent hours as they sat in front of the dressing mirror, first combing their hair, then applying a faint trace of kajal, a faint gloss of lipstick, a line of kumkum in the parting of their hair before pressing a red bindi at the centre of the forehead. Then would come out the neatly pressed saris being draped around as the lady and the sari goes round and round until the five yards of cloth is firmly wrapped around her body like a doll in a bright coloured paper. The affair is very intimate and systematic, as it is sensual. The front pleats gathering themselves beautifully symmetrically like flower-petals. This is the most complex feat to achieve since the pleats have to fall graciously. The swish-swoosh of the pleats as they get folded in and out finally looks out like a half-open, half-shut Japanese fan. Then with elan, the pallu is thrown over the shoulder as it hangs innocently only to be disturbed by an occasional breeze.

Having done this, they would proceed to gaze at the mirror taking their own time in trying to see if the length of the last fold is exact and that it hides what is to be hidden. If found less, then a slight bend in the knee as the other leg's heel pulls the last fold a bit longer and bingo, the heel is hidden and now high heels can be worn! Then would come those bangles and necklaces - perhaps gold, lacking in lustre as gold always does unless of the lesser, cheaper variety.

The draping of a sari is an art and the novices were evident on the roads with ill-fitting blouses, the pleats not falling gracefully; or unevenly tucked in folds giving an asymmetric look, and pins holding the saris at all possible places of danger. In spite of all these fortifications, the lack of practice peeped through - like a bra strap from the edge of a blouse.

All this done, the couples went from house to hour, lane to lane visiting the pooja like Ganesh decorations back in Pune. Recently married couple held hands a bit more firmly and confidently as the yet to marry 'friends' shied away from the public proclamation - fingers however touching mischievously. The elderly couples, least bothered about this physicality, walked with quite a distance looking in opposite directions.

There were groups of boys and there were groups of girls - one following the other. The boys followed the girls - wherever they went - to the school or to the pooja and returned with them. Those giggles and slanting glances ensured them that the endeavours had yielded results.

There were festivities around as Rabindranath's lines essayed the mood in clear terms

Bahe nirantar ananta anadadhara,
Baaje ashima nabhamaje anaadiraba

Endless and unbroken flows the stream of joy,
Its timeless sound resonates beneath the sky