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Baishakh in Lucknow

For our member Ms. R. Mukherjee, the Bengali New Year and Rabindra Jayanti saw grand cultural gatherings in the heart of Lucknow. In this memoir, she looks back fondly at a time when community, creativity, and celebration defined the month of Baishakh.

I grew up in Lucknow, where we used to celebrate Poila Boishakh (Bengali New Year) with great enthusiasm. Back in those days, Lucknow was almost like a mini-Calcutta. There were many small clubs across the neighbourhoods, and we would go out for probhat pheri (early morning cultural processions), wearing white saris and frocks, singing songs—mainly by Tagore. These processions would converge at the Bengali Club, where we would sing together, feed each other sweets, and exchange flowers.
We were especially busy with festivities throughout the month of Baishakh. The Poila Boishakh celebrations were followed by preparations for Rabindra Jayanti (Tagore’s birthday). Several clubs and institutions would organise large-scale events and often bring in renowned artists and cultural personalities from Kolkata, such as Hemanta Mukhopadhyay and Manna Dey. In those days, Lucknow felt to me like a true pilgrimage site for music.
The day after the big shows, we—the children of the neighbourhood—would hold our own performances. We would take over a long room at a friend’s house and prepare a makeshift stage. Saris borrowed from our mothers and aunts became curtains, and we would perform Tagore’s songs and plays. The grown-ups encouraged us, and the ladies of the house would thoughtfully prepare luchi, aloo dom, and bodey for us.
From the ages of 14 to 16, I began participating in larger events on Poila Boishakh and Rabindra Jayanti. These programmes often found mention in the local newspapers. The trainers and lead performers were all talented artistes. Our songs were led by Ms Aruna Sengupta, a student of the renowned Rabindrasangeet exponent Kanika Bandopadhyay, and our dances were choreographed by a teacher from Santiniketan.
Among our troupe was a dance teacher who used to dress up as Shiva. His wife, also a fine dancer, would play the part of Parvati. Whenever she made a mistake, he would get annoyed. Shiva’s cosmic dance would pause, and his taandav would turn into a scolding, directed at his wife as though she were merely a student!
Despite tempers occasionally flaring, the events were always full of fun and excitement. Nowadays, I don’t see the same level of enthusiasm for celebrations on a similar scale. When I first moved to the society I currently live in, I would still see small performances on Rabindra Jayanti. The young girls used to sing and dance back then, but over the years, the scale has dwindled. The size of the stages, the energy, the excitement—none of it compares to the lengths we once went to in order to make those occasions truly memorable.

(As narrated to Support Elders by our member)
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Down Memory Lane

Poila Baishakh Celebrations of the Past

Our member Ms A. Ray reminisces about her childhood when Manimela gatherings—a pre-Independence initiative for children—turned Poil Baishakh celebrations into an occasion of cultural expression, friendship, and youthful revelry.


I have always enjoyed celebrating Poila Baishakh, the Bengali New Year. When we were young, our celebrations of Poila Baishakh were largely centred around our neighbourhood Manimela, an initiative started by the writer Bimal Ghosh, popularly known as Moumachhi (The Bee). Founded in pre-Independence Kolkata, the Manimela movement aimed at the cultural upliftment of children, and there used to be such spaces in every large locality. These associations quickly grew in number, and soon there were hundreds of them in the city. In my youth, I spent a lot of time at these gatherings, drawing, painting, singing, playing, and even studying with other children in my local Manimela.
On Poila Baishakh, we would wake up early in the morning and drape ourselves in white saris with bright red borders, while the younger children dressed in white frocks. We would then step out and go around the neighbourhood, singing songs at street corners. Later in the evening, we put on performances of Tagore’s dance dramas and sang his songs. I actively participated in these revelries, lending my voice to the choir or even dancing in circles to choreographed routines. Tagore was not the only focus at our cultural evenings. I remember performing to popular songs such as “Cholo Kodaal Chalai,” a farmers’ tune urging people to work together. We were a close-knit group, and these activities strengthened our bond.
Manimela was an integral part of my childhood, shaping some of my happiest memories. I was an active, spirited child and loved taking part in stick fights, knife throwing, kho-kho, and kabaddi. We even went trekking together.
Sadly, these celebrations, open only to children below the age of 16, soon came to an end for me. Today, only a handful of Manimela groups remain, and I feel that children today are missing out on something truly special.
Now, I am confined to my chair and move around with the help of a walker. But the memories of Manimela remain vivid, filling me with gratitude for a childhood rich in friendship, adventure, and joy.

(As narrated to Support Elders by our member)