Festivals often hold more than ritual significance—they become cherished family traditions that bind generations together, as our member Ms K. Chatterjee fondly remembers.

I have an elder brother, but having grown up in a joint family where we were never taught to discriminate between true siblings and cousins, I always felt I was one of seven or eight siblings. My grandfather had two brothers, and the descendants of all three grew up under the same roof.
We were a refugee family; our elders had migrated from East Bengal during Partition. We never had much money, but the emphasis was always on sharing whatever we had and focusing on personal development through intellectual and cultural growth. We would read together, practise our arts together, and these activities brought us closer as siblings.
On Bhai Phota, three generations—my grandmother’s brothers, my mother’s brothers, my aunt’s brothers, and our own—would all gather in the verandah and sit next to each other on low stools called pedis (we did not have tables or chairs back then). We would arrange the paraphernalia for the phota: kohl, ghee, sandalwood paste, honey, and small lamps. Then, chanting the mantras, we would dip our little fingers into the mixtures and apply teekas (marks on the forehead) on our respective brothers. Each brother would receive a spotless white vest from a brand called Gopal.
Meals were non-vegetarian on such days. We would have duck-egg curry, where each egg would be sliced not perpendicularly, which would make the two halves nouka-shaped (boat-shaped), but through the middle so that the two halves looked like dugi-tablas (percussion instruments). We would enjoy the yolks the most, saving them for the end of the meal. No meal was without its share of drama, as our naughty brothers would tease us by stealing our eggs! They would really draw out our agony before returning them.
These gatherings would always end with a family cultural performance by the more talented members. The tradition continued into the next generation—my daughter would dance, and I would sing with my son accompanying me on the tabla. My grandfather would then jokingly admonish me, “There you go, showing off your children! Do you think mine are talentless? Anju,” he would call out loudly to my mother, “Come, dance to Himelo Raate Oi Gogone!” And my mother, shy because my husband and my father, would be in the audience, would put up a beautiful recital.
Where are those Bhai Phota evenings today? Most of those people are no more. I truly miss those days of my youth. They were simpler times—people had so much heart. Sometimes it all feels like a dream…

(as narrated to Support Elders by our member)

Crises often awaken old memories and take us back in time. The recent floods in Kolkata prompted our member Mr B. Bandopadhyay to recall his experiences with rain—both in the city and in the mountains.

On the night of 25 September 2025, there was a cloudburst in Kolkata, and in just four hours we received what some cities get in an entire year. It has been many years since I witnessed rain of such proportions.
It is not always the volume of rain that is to be feared, however. I remember trekking to the Kedarnath and Badrinath temples many years ago. We had stopped for a meal at the halfway mark, and with four or five kilometres still to go before reaching Hanuman Chatti, it started to rain. The rain wasn’t heavy, but late autumn showers at such high altitudes—Kedarnath stands at 11,755 feet—are accompanied by sharp winds that cut into your skin. We were wearing raincoats, but they offered little protection from the chill that left our knees—uncovered by the raincoat—aching and sore. Umbrellas were no help either; we held them not above our heads but in front of us as shields.
Certain stretches of the trek ran along loose gravel, making our ascent dangerous, but we soldiered on as the rain fell in slanted sheets. Higher up, we saw that it had snowed, and some people had slipped on the sleet. As the horses passed by, we worried for the riders and hoped they would not fall off the edge of the road. Deprived of oxygen, it took us nearly three hours in the rain to walk those four kilometres to Hanuman Chatti. We were cautious, and somehow made it to the top without injury.
Another time, I went to watch a football match. A relative had managed to secure a ticket to the Mohun Bagan vs East Bengal final, played in front of Fort William. In those days, spectators had to watch from the ramparts. My relative, fourteen years younger than I, asked me to accompany him. As the match ended, the skies opened up, and I lost him in the crowd. I waited for him at Curzon Park for an hour, drenched to the skin.
Rain has a way of humbling us—whether it falls in torrents over a city or comes down gently on a mountain trail. It tests our patience, our endurance, and sometimes even our courage. Yet when the clouds clear, the memory of such moments stays with us, reminding us how small we are before the forces of nature.

(as narrated to Support Elders by our member)