Mind the Gap – Kalighat Temple on Poila Boishak
With selfies replacing shlokas and escalators outshining incense, tradition took a humorous backseat in this uniquely Kolkata twist on Poila Boishak in Kalighat temple.
By the time most of us had rubbed the sleep from our eyes and decided whether to wear cotton or risk a heatstroke in synthetic, Poila Boishakh at Kalighat was already telling a rather unexpected tale. And no, it wasn’t one of bells chiming, crowds jostling, or bhadralok tiptoeing with trays of sweets and flowers. Instead, it was… selfies. Loads of them. As if Instagram had declared war on tradition.
Gone were the serpentine queues outside Kalighat Temple that once made you question your life choices—and possibly the strength of your deodorant. This year, as in the past few, the crowd had thinned faster than a pensioner’s hairline. But there was a twist in the tale: the newly inaugurated Skywalk was now the real showstopper, stealing the limelight like a seasoned theatre diva.
Snapchat Over Shankha-Ghonta
Tuesday morning saw the Kalighat Skywalk swarming with folks clicking selfies against murals and railings like their lives depended on it. One could be forgiven for thinking they’d stumbled onto a fashion blogger convention, not a religious site. Up and down the escalators they went, clicking, posing, spinning, zooming—it was like a merry-go-round with better footwear.
Of course, some did remember to pay a quick visit to the temple (for old times’ sake, perhaps?) before racing up again for aerial shots of the locality. One couldn’t help but chuckle—who needs moksha when you’ve got panoramic views and portrait mode?
Meanwhile, Down Below…
But while the Skywalk basked in its fifteen minutes of fame, the poor shopkeepers below looked like they were auditioning for a new series titled Death of a Salesman: Kalighat Edition. “Been sitting here since morning,” sighed one trader, swatting flies with the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for failed suitors. “Sold nowt but bad luck and boredom. Earlier, folks would pick up flowers or bangles as they walked by. Now? They float over us like we’re scenery in a second-rate play.”
And it wasn’t just him. The flower sellers, the sweet shop owners, even the priests waiting under shoddy shamianas looked about as hopeful as an England fan in a penalty shootout. Hālkhāta ledgers lay open, pristine and untouched—much like New Year’s resolutions by mid-January.
One priest muttered, “Even Tuesday-Saturday regulars put on more of a show than this lot. If this is what Poila Boishakh’s come to, we may as well pack up and start a YouTube channel.”
A Penny for the Police?
Not to be left out of this mildly farcical theatre, the police, who had been stationed in droves expecting an invasion, found themselves with very little to do. Some took to their mobiles, others swapped gossip. A few were seen examining the murals on the Skywalk, perhaps wondering whether abstract art could indeed be considered a religious experience.
All Heat, No Feet
With temperatures high enough to bake a paratha on the pavement, many devotees gave the temple a miss altogether. Several apparently completed their puja the night before and scooted. Others, mostly from nearby towns, did drop by in the morning but gave the full ritual rigmarole a pass.
And business? Let’s just say if this were the stock market, people would be diving headfirst out of metaphorical windows. “Jaba flowers cost a fortune now,” moaned one garland seller. “Most just offer two petals with the sweets and dash off. Mala toh sapne mein bhi nahin dekhte.”
Final Thoughts from the Street Philosopher
If the Skywalk is the new Kalighat, then tradition might be in for a bit of a midlife crisis. And yet, maybe it’s not all gloom and doom. After all, Kolkata does have a knack for turning even the most bizarre of changes into something faintly poetic—and more than a little absurd.
So here’s to the Skywalk, the surprise star of Poila Boishakh. May it continue to offer shade, selfies, and a staircase to somewhere—if not heaven, at least the first-floor mithai shop.
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