Gajon

Mrinal Chatterjee

Window Seat

Gajan or Shivagajan is a religious Hindu festival celebrated mostly in West Bengal and in a different way in parts of Odisha. Gajan spans around a week, starting at the last week of Choitro or Chaitra (last month Bengali calendar) continuing till the end of the Bengali year with Charak Puja.The participants of this festival are known as Gajan Sannyasi or Bhokta. Gajan is linked to persons related directly or indirectly, to the agricultural community. They pray for rain and a better harvest. Lord Shiva is said to be closely related to this community. It is worth mentioning that Dharmathakur is actually considered to be the God of Fertility.

During the Gajan festival, devotees worship Lord Shiva by injuring themselves through piercing of needles, iron rods, hooks and by many other means in different parts of their bodies including tongue, lips, ear etc. They believe that through pain and injury, they can appease Him. 

The devotees madly dance, shout and roam around villages, assuming themselves as Nandi and Bhiringi (attendants and great devotees of Lord Shiva).

This Gajan festival is celebrated in different ways in West Bengal. In some villages, children are portrayed mostly as Lord Shiva or Lord Krishna, wearing eye-catching costumes and their faces brightly painted. In some villages, devotees play with skulls pretending to be the real devotees of Lord Shiva.

Look at these three young faces painted in bold yellow, red, and blue, which reflect a tradition deeply rooted in Gajon, where face painting is a common expression of devotion and culture. Their calm yet intense eyes carry a quiet strength, while the gentle hands shaping one child’s face show the process behind this transformation. This portrait captures how simple rituals turn children into living symbols of tradition, blending innocence with the spirit of celebration.

Is Globalisation dying?

I was awarded D.Litt for my thesis on ‘Impact of Globalisation on Media in India’ in 2022. By that time there were many who were talking about de-globalization. Commentators have been predicting the end of globalization since 2008 pointing at evidence like the de facto paralysis of the World Trade Organization.

For four centuries, the world economy tightened toward integration: trade widened, borders softened, and even wars proved temporary interruptions. As historians note, global output rose more than eight hundredfold since the seventeenth century, driven by moments when integration beat isolation.

However, several factors including rising ultra-nationalism across the globe, and decline of a world order- triggered de-globalisation. Trade stalled, investment slowed, and leaders once began again praising self-sufficiency. The issue is not nostalgia for frictionless markets, but something deeper: globalisation has always depended on stewardship.

With American leadership fading and no clear successor (China is too reluctant to take on the global leadership), globalisation is in danger.

However, there are thinkers and commentators, who are still hopeful about the future of globalisation. They say, it is not dying, but it is undergoing a significant transformation. While traditional goods trade has plateaued and geopolitical tensions cause regionalization, cross-border data flows, digital services, and investment continue to rise.

Summer

Summer in most parts of India, except the areas located on top of the mountains­- is not a season; it is a full-body experience—one that politely begins as “warm” and quickly escalates into “why is the sun personally offended with me?”

In Bhubaneswar, where I live, the day has already peaked by 9 a.m. The ceiling fan spins heroically, like a fighter in its last stand, moving hot air from one corner to another with admirable but pointless dedication. Stepping outside feels like opening an oven to check if you are fully baked.

Humidity, of course, is the real villain. Heat merely burns; humidity clings. It hugs you without consent, sits on your shoulder, and whispers, “You’re never going to feel dry again.” Clothes develop an emotional attachment to your skin.

Public transport becomes a social experiment in collective endurance. Everyone pretends not to notice everyone else slowly melting. The only thing more crowded than the bus is the shared desperation for a breeze.

Cold drinks turn into spiritual experiences. That first sip of nimbu pani or lassi feels like divine intervention. Ice cubes are treated with reverence—they are no longer frozen water but symbols of hope.

And yet, life goes on. Power cuts arrive like uninvited guests, just when the fan was beginning to matter.

But perhaps the greatest mystery of the summer in the eastern states of  India is this: just when you think you cannot take it anymore, pre-monsoon thunderstorms known in Odia and Bengali as Kalbaisakhi (in English it is known as Nor’westers) strike. The adolescents run towards mango groves to pick the fallen tender mangoes—and suddenly, all is forgiven.