13 Songs To Recreate A 90s Kolkata Pujo Wherever You Are

The Pujas my father folded up his small audio cassette company was oddly special. Our neighbourhood cassette shop had started selling cold drinks, chips and chocolates on the side — cassette sales had plunged and almost no children queued up before his tiny shop to get songs recorded on an empty cassette for Rs 10. My father, who ran everything from production to sales by himself, had only started manufacturing a few CDs, rather reluctantly.

That year, DJ Aqeel’s Keh Doon Tumhe had scorched every music countdown on TV and radio, firmly ushering in the age of remixes. My father, who had groaned and grumbled about Instant Karma’s Baahon Main Chale Aao remix — “why is that woman whining ‘hold me tight’ in the song like she has gas”, he raged — was producing a remix album himself. He picked some of his favourite Bengali songs to be remixed, sat with his old collaborator — a moody music arranger — waving animatedly and making beatboxing-like sounds, while directing him to add bass drops to Kishore Kumar’s Shing Nei Tobu Naam Tar Shingha’s music track. Weeks later — a few days before Pujas — huge boxes full of my father’s new ‘Pujo album’ cassettes came back from distributors, they had barely sold 500 pieces. Years later, my father said that his heart felt like it was physically breaking that day.

It was odd for my father to have time to go pandal-hopping, or come for pushpanjalis, or eat at restaurants — we had only seen a frenzied version of him around Pujas, loudly debating other ‘releases’ on phone, making rounds of retailers or accompanying folk artistes he had signed up for shows in the districts. That Puja, for the first time in years, he was home. 

During the days, he played the original songs and then the remixes he had made, trying to understand the ‘mistakes’ he had made. The flipside was,  we woke up to some of the best Hindi and Bengali songs all the Pujo days, and sat around our music player while my father paused the songs occasionally to apprise us of a difficult note the singer was about to hit. 

The Durga Pujas and music were almost inextricably linked in our lives. On Puja mornings, when the loud speaker started blaring music at 7 am, my grandfather — a parody singer who wrote and sung satirical parodies of popular Hindi and Bengali songs — would shake his head, laugh and sing a line from his parody of Jhoom Barabar Jhoom Sharabi. It went, Raat Biret E Ghum Tarabi, Doshobhuja Maa Go, Tui Jodi Aaj Maa Na Hoye Mic Hoechis. Meaning, “O Ten-armed goddess, you have been turned into a mic from a mother.” Last year, as an unfamiliar religious sensitivity coursed through West Bengal during the general elections, my father, a religious Hindu, wondered if my grandfather’s humorous criticism of the celebration would survive in this day. “Back then, he used to sing these in the Puja pandals. And got requests to sing it several times during a show. People were different then,” he said. 

A Pujo ‘album’ was not just a mainstay of my family, whose livelihood was music.Through the 60s, 70s and right up to the 90s, it was a coveted phenomenon during the festivals. It produced some spectacular Bengali music and over the years, has been instrumental in creating a warm, familiar soundscape for the Pujas. These songs and the zesty rhythm of the dhaak together sounds like Durga Puja in my head.

My father who worked for HMV (now known as Saregama) for nearly a decade remembered that the ceremonial release of ‘Puja music’ began with the publication of an elaborate catalogue of singers and musicians called ‘Sharod Arghya’, announcing upcoming releases and summarising the artistes’ earlier work. “The book was released shortly before Bishwakarma Puja, a couple of months before the Durga Pujas, and was one of the most anticipated things before the Pujas. It helped people decide what music to buy and also helped build anticipation,” he said.

The thick catalogue mentioned a range of music — from genres of music known by the names of the creators like Atul Prasadi gaan and Dwijendragieeti to modern Bengali songs by Hemanta Mukherjee, Shyamal Mitra or RD Burman and the likes of Lata Mangeshkar and Asha Bhonsle — the book was popular right upto the mid-90s. “Then the interest started petering out. I suspect with cable TV and all, no one really wanted to wait for a Puja release if they wanted to make money. That was the beginning of the end of the Puja album,” my father recollected. Till then, the Pujas marked the most important releases of the year in Bengal.

A few days ago, I posted a Facebook status asking if people had a song they associated deeply with the Durga Pujas. Friends who have lived in and around Kolkata could easily come up with that one song that always reminded them of the Pujas. While it is impossible to narrow down a few songs as the music of Durga Pujas — it would be outright blasphemous and unfair to the mind-boggling range of music that Bengal produces — in Kolkata and its fringes, neighbourhood pandals often tend to have a familiar soundscape. 

Here’s a list of 13 such songs that must have been played on a loop at a pandal if you’ve grown up in Kolkata or around the city. As the pandemic mutes celebrations and you stay at home, here’s a playlist that will be a comforting reminder of the Pujas you knew and are missing.

‘PRIYOTOMA MONE REKHO’, KUMAR SANU

While writing this article, I realised Kumar Sanu’s Priyotoma Mone Rekho released in 1991, which explains why this is perhaps the first song that comes to my mind when I think of the Pujas and music. I must have been six years old when the album released and every year since then, there has been no Pujo and no neighbourhood pandal I remember which has not played this album at least once. The album had a bunch of great songs — Tumi Ele Na, Tumi Jano Na Naki Bojhona — but it was the title song, also called Koto Je Sagor Nodi in popular parlance, that has been a Pujo anthem for many years since it was released. 

Written by celebrated lyricist late Pulak Bandyopadhyay and composed by Arup-Pronoy, the song is a ballad on Bengal. One of the reasons it struck a chord with us 90s kids brought up on a steady stream of Bollywood, was how the lyrics almost sounded like the various Bengali school essays we wrote on autumn and the Pujas.  For example, one line — Shonai Shonai Mora Neel Neel Akash, Shanto Dighir Jole Khele Rajhansh (The blue sky is gilded in gold, swans frolic in the lake) — could easily be straight out of a junior school painting we made of the Pujas. 

‘NILANJANA’, NACHIKETA

Nachiketa burst into the Bengali music scene in the 90s, alongside several other new-age composers, who sang what was called ‘jibonmukhi gaan’  — songs whose rhetoric was close to real-life conversations. His debut album Ei Besh Bhalo Achi, released in 1993, had the superhit number Nilanjana. It talked about a high-school romance, where a young boy waits for one glimpse of his first love Nilanjana between math classes and theatre rehearsals. Nilanjana, in the ‘para’ I grew up in, wafted around the neighbourhood in the afternoon when the adults had gone home for a siesta, and the young boys and girls would loiter cautiously around the pandals, aware that a nosy uncle was always watching them. Nilanjana seemed to capture the anticipation of infatuated teens just about perfectly.  

‘MONE PORE RUBY ROY’, RAHUL DEV BURMAN

When Nilanjana released, our parents were quick to argue that it did not hold a candle to the “original” song for teenage longing, Rahul Dev Burman’s Mone Pore Ruby Roy. Ruby Roy, released in 1984, was an ode to childhood love, set to the same tune as Meri Bheegi Bheegi Si from Anamika (1972) was set to. Ruby Roy’s music arrangement is different from Meri Bheegi Bheegi only in the addition of a maracas-like instrument, which emulates the clanging noise of a payal as a line in the song goes, Rowd jola dupure, sur tule nupure, bus theke tumi jobe nabte (In a sun-baked afternoon, when you alighted from the bus, your anklets making music…). Often, Ruby Roy and Nilanjana played right after each other, leading to sleepy debates with parents about which was better — no one won.

‘CHIRODINI TUMI JE AMAR’, KISHORE KUMAR

Amar Sangi, starring Prosenjit and Vijayta Pandit released in 1986, and boasted an iconic album. Understandably, the title track, Chirodini Tumi Je Amar, sung by Kishore Kumar and composed by Bappi Lahiri, is a ‘Pujo song’ that has not faded from the city’s soundscape over 30 years later. Several 80s and 90s kids who grew up in Kolkata, will remember the sappy, romantic song as a rite of passage for heralding the arrival of the Pujas. Writer and editor Debarati Chakraborty remembers that throughout her childhood, the song was a signal that it was time to dress up and head to the pandals the Pujas were open!

‘TROYEE’, RD BURMAN

Troyee, a road caper starring Debasree Roy and Mithun Chakraborty, released in 1982. While most of us do not remember much about the film, Troyee’s music — composed by RD Burman — is something most people growing up in Bengal in the 90s almost know by heart. The album had a wonderful mix of romantic, flirtatious and ‘sad’ songs, all of which played and still plays on a loop in Puja pandals. Aro Kachakachi (a romantic duet by Kishore Kumar and Asha Bhonsle), Jana Ojana Pothe Cholechi (a funky journey song) and Kotha Hoechilo (Asha Bhonsle) played through the day, whereas the flirtatious Ektu Bosho Chole Jeyo Na, starring Helen, played later in the evenings when crowds died down a bit. 

‘TOLO CHHINNO BINA’, ASHA BHOSLE

Aparna Sen and Victor Banerjee in Ekanta Apon (1987) are the gold standard of hotness. That apart, the album, again created by RD Burman, had a signature mix of romantic, sexy and sad songs — basically a song for every mood. While my favourite is Na Na Kache Esho Na — a unabashedly flirtatious song sung by SP Balasubrahmanyam that also feeds my very primitive love for melodrama — the Pujo staple was a peppy Tolo Chhinnobina. The song is kind of a “family song”, urging people to see light at the end of darkness. Literally the song we need at this time. 

‘MOHUA E JOMECHE AAJ MOU’, ASHA BHOSLE

Mohua E Jomeche Aaj Mou has long been considered a true test of a ‘Asha Konthi’-singer — a singer who sang Bhosle’s song emulating her, a rage in Bengal for years. The song, which is about a woman musing about how everything around her seems to have become heady and intoxicating ever since she fell in love, talks about love, desire and dreams. Bhosle hit the high notes of Mohua E Jomeche almost effortlessly but most residents of Kolkata who have been a willing or unwilling audience of a ‘Puja function’ will attest to the fact that they’ve had to stay up listening to singers attempting and messing them up spectacularly in the middle of the night. Miss Jojo, a popular Bengali singer, was someone who succeeded and the song often was the highlight of her Puja performances.  

‘TOKHON TOMAR EKUSH BOCHOR BODHOI’, ARATI MUKERJEE

The song sung by Arati Mukherjee released sometime in the 80s, and was again evidence of the whiff of youth that Bappi Lahiri brought into Bengali music with his compositions. In fact, the first time I remember listening to the song was at a Pujo pandal and honestly, it feels a little strange to not hear it play on the loudspeaker in the neighbourhood during the Pujas. The few years I could not make it home during Pujas, I made sure to play the song a few times through the four days to feel like I was home. The song speaks about young heartbreak and has some exquisite writing courtesy lyricist Subir Mazumdar.  

‘EI TO JIBON’, KISHORE KUMAR

Often, the iconic song from Uttam Kumar-starrer Ogo Bodhu Sundori was sneaked into the music player by the young men in the neighbourhood when the uncles and aunties were not looking. The song, which is about drinking and has the famous lines — beyara, chalao fowara, gin, sherry, champagne, rum (waiter, start a fountain, gin, sherry, champagne, rum) — was literally the first time I ever heard of champagne in my life. “What is shampain, Maa?” I had asked, much to my mother’s chagrin — gin and rum were alcohol I was familiar with thanks to Baba’s office parties. “Drinks film stars have,” she quipped, warning that I should never touch any of these. Obviously, as the song neared its ending, with Kumar mock-slurring the lines, Moddopaaner biruddhe jara, tader mathay poruk baaj (People who are against drinking, let the lightning strike them)”, you would have a para elder scold the younger men, Aje baje gaan na chaliye, Rabindrasangeet chala na ekta. Chyangra jotoshob (Instead of playing rubbish songs, play a Rabindrasangeet no? Loafers all.”) 

‘BAJLO TOMAR ALO BENU’, SUPRITI GHOSH

The above-mentioned kids may have fumbled to find an appropriate Rabindra Sangeet, but they’d always have Supriti Ghosh’s Bajlo Tomar Alor Benu to come to their rescue. Listening to a song heralding the arrival of the deity is how my college senior Sanhita remembers waking up every morning. The song, written by Bani Kumar and composed by Pankaj Kumar Mullick, ushers in a familiar home feeling, more because the song opens Birendra Krishna Bhadra’s recital of Mahishasura Mardini, a musical created by All India Radio that has been a staple in most Kolkata homes on Mahalaya. Ghosh’s song is often played in the pandals as para folks go about making arrangements for Pujas early in the morning. As the song started playing at what felt like the crack of dawn, and kids tried to sleep, mothers would grumble how the ’goddess was here” but the devils (us) were sleeping. 

‘SHONO KONO EK DIN’, HEMANTA MUKHOPADHYAY

This Hemanta Mukhopadhyay song was often a favourite in the evenings when the neighbourhood geared up for visitors and wanted to play a selection of ‘classy’ music. Old Hemanta Mukhopadhyay songs like these and of course, a collection of Rabindra Sangeet sung by icons like Kanika Bandyopadhya, Dwijen Mukherjee, Suchitra Mitra and more modern versions by the likes of Bangladeshi singer Ornob played in pandals for a few peak visitor hours in the evenings. My late grandmother often heaved a sigh of relief as Mukhopadhyay started playing, followed by Suchitra Mitra’s rendition of Tomar Khola Hawa, saying, “Thank god, Maa (the deity) is not running away yet tortured by your songs!”.  

‘SAPTAMI TEH PROTHOM DEKA’, COCA COLA AD

Of all the songs I know by heart, this fiveline Coca Cola song is something that has been etched in my memories pretty irreversibly. This song released either in the late 90s or early 2000s whe we had just hit our teens and would venture to old Bengali ‘barir pujos’ or Maddox Square club—easily a flesh-and-blood Tinder at the time. The song, through the rhetoric of a teenage crush, also spoke about how the Pujas came and went almost in a breath. The song traces how a teenage crush progresses through the four days of the Puja and this was a meet-cute we all dreamt of during the festival.  

SPECIAL MENTION:

‘DO GHOONT MUJHE BHI PILA DE SHARABI’, LATA MANGESHKAR

If you haven’t grown up in Bengal or Kolkata, you are probably going, “wait, what, why?”. I used to think this song’s magical and routine appearance during immersion processions was the product of the alcohol the folks in my para drank. Turns out, it wasn’t. Journalists Tamaghna and Bohni pointed out that this song is inextricably linked to their Pujo memories as there would be no ‘bhashan’ without kids and men twisting their limbs and ankles to this song before the deity was taken out for immersion. The mention of this song is also a reminder of what the Pujas meant to people with caste and some amount of class privileges — they were a celebration of life first, a religious shindig later. Let’s see how long that lasts in these times.