"Clutching the Greased Mango Leaf: A Review of Kiriti Sengupta's ‘Rituals’ " by Evelyna Nazari

When we think of rituals, we tend to associate them with faith practices followed by the devout. Such connotations, however, can discourage agnostics and those who are more secular from understanding a core meaning of rituals. More than anything, rituals are habits that can provide significance to one’s life. Calcuttan award-winning poet, editor, and publisher, Kiriti Sengupta, implores readers in his recent book of poems, Rituals, to rediscover what these rituals might bring to our interactions with nature and the natural world. In his collection, he explores such facets of life as pregnancy, family, change, and comfort, and strips them to their raw, down-to-earth roots — making them palatable to an array of readers with beliefs and disbeliefs alike. In doing so, his themes leave a memorable wisp of his message, allowing us to reassess our relationship to the world around us.

Take his piece, “The Expectant Mother,” for example, which MORIA Literary Magazine published in our second issue. On a personal note: at the time, I was part of the submissions review team at the magazine, and this poem was one of the few I read in our slush pile that I could recall individual lines from later. When I read, “She lies supine,” in the book, my gears start to turn. Then I read, “a greased mango leaf” and “[h]er eyes / whist like a whisper,” and it all clicked. The enjambment, the alliteration — it all came back to me. Sengupta’s “The Expectant Mother” was one of the pieces I read in our submissions queue that I had expressed whole-hearted support for and had hoped would be included in the magazine.

In this poem, he portrays pregnancy with a divinity and spirituality that extends beyond just the mere bearing of a child. He connects the mother figure in the poem to mother nature when the speaker “stretches her hands / to douse the sky / with blood and water.” Grasping onto this “greased mango leaf,” he intertwines his own Indian culture by describing the transformation the leaf undergoes to become kohl, a traditional Indian cosmetic for the eyes. When the time comes for setting the leaf aflame to create the kohl, the fire associated with it signifies a renewal, similar to starting intentional forest fires in order to recycle nutrients back into the land. The human ritual, if you will, for pregnancy that Sengupta portrays is a cyclical process bigger than any one person. It is an opportunity to give back to nature — a new being ready to give back to the same forces that brought them into existence.

Extending this theme to the idea of family and change, his poem “Masala Muri” reminisces about the memory of dining with family “[o]n every stormy Sunday,” when they “invariably had power cuts / and Baba cooked dinner for us all.” He then comments on the drawbacks of modernization in the present day — “we order food . . . the mobile app comes handy” — something many families can relate to. But, clearly, he regrets the loss of the former ritual. From chopping onions to slicing ginger, the memory of each action compliments the others in preparing this shared meal. It brings about a togetherness, an acknowledgement of each other’s presence, and the exchanging of conversation — unknowingly contributing to memories we don’t necessarily realize we will cherish in the future: “On such occasions we used to sit close, / facing each other, we shared our stories.” Memories like these are like glimpses of light into our current values as well as into the past, which Sengupta describes with the rooms shining “in kerosene lamps.” The flickering memory adds to the nostalgia of what once was and how the times have changed now. What we may think of a setback in the moment, we may realize later has added more value to the experience than we think. He comments fondly on his past, writing that he wishes “to buy / a new lantern” to illuminate the memory and bring those stories into the present.

Rituals and practiced habits can extend beyond the home. Appropriately titled, “A Place Like Home,” Sengupta explores what it means to find comfort beyond where you live. He describes three drinking glasses in a pub, each with its own distinct characteristics: “The first stands upright, / the other upside down, / another lies horizontal.” Perhaps manifestations of the optimist, pessimist, and neutralist, these symbols stand as a welcome in the pub to all kinds of patrons, providing “ice, scent and comfort.” Community is found in pubs, where people routinely experience a warmth in having drinks and speaking their piece with a fervor, so that even their “lashes refused to flutter.” Home is where the heart is, truly, and when taken away from that opportunity, a sense of unease arises. Sengupta captures this in his final lines when he writes, “The pub reopens / the next day / to the riff of unrest.” The discomfort in the unrest almost becomes a matter of identity; if you can’t be in a space where you can be yourself, naturally, a cognitive dissonance occurs between your desires and your actions.

In such moments, all is not lost. Sengupta’s poem “Gravity” discusses the themes of change, restlessness, and fear at the moment of an aircraft experiencing turbulence. Being at such a high elevation and far from home, a lot of faith is placed on the pilots and the aircraft itself in the hope everything will pass with ease. When the officer makes the alert that “[t]he dismal climate may cause turbulence,” we see an immediate fear-induced response to the unknown when the speaker’s son needs to “grip the armrests.” We brace for impact as a psychological response, but these moments of uncertainty do more than just tax our consciousness. The parental figure comforts the son: “Relax! Bumps help us realize the earth.” Ending his poem on a comforting note, Sengupta leaves us with food for thought on how to interpret life events when things go haywire. Only from overcoming obstacles or persevering through the unknown do we realize what it means to tread this earth we often take for granted. Our recovery and return to equilibrium allows us to appreciate our relationship to nature — often neglected when we are too rooted to comfort.

Details like these merely scratch the surface of the overarching philosophies discussed in Sengupta’s Rituals. His poetry captures the deeper meanings we experience in everyday life, whether it is going late to work, dining with family, or revisiting old homes and memories. He reminds us that the actions we take — day in, day out — are a small part of a larger paradigm of the natural world. No matter one’s affiliation or background, Sengupta ultimately leaves us the lasting message that we should find meaning in what comes our way and extend those values into the future.

EVELYNA NAZARI

Evelyna Nazari is a game design major who has recently undertaken a minor in professional writing. She has a strange relationship with writing — it’s her most liberating medium of communication, yet the most frustrating. She is also an artist who enjoys creating the pre-production content of her games, as well as her personal projects. Blending these interests together, she aspires to create games that leave a meaningful message in someway or, at least, a feel-good look and experience.