Swapna Dutta, my Mother: Third Chapter

My Mother Swapna Dutta's Śrāddha will be performed on Friday, 8 August 2025 (Bengali calendar: 22 Srabon 1432) at the Viveknagar Kalibari (Viveknagar Kali Temple), located in the Jadavpur area of South Kolkata. The rituals are expected to begin around 10:30 am with upasana, yajna, and pindadaan, all to be conducted under the guidance of the temple's resident priests.

From 1:00 pm to 4:00 pm, arrangements will be made for a vegetarian meal for all those attending. As of now, the proposed menu includes white rice, dal, shukto, fried potatoes (alu bhaja), fried aubergine (brinjal/begun bhaja), dhokar dalna, paneer curry, chutney, papad, rasgullas, and sandesh. Approximately 70 esteemed guests have been invited so far, and this number may increase slightly. The Kalibari's own kitchen unit will oversee the cooking and serving, with the sweets (rasgullas and sandesh) being procured separately from Srihari Mistanna Bhandar, a well-known sweet shop near the temple.

On the preceding day, Thursday, 7 August 2025 (21 Srabon 1432), the ghatakaj (ritualistic water rites) will be performed in the morning, also under the supervision of the Kalibari's Brahmin priests.

And now, a couple of days before the Śrāddha, I begin writing the third chapter of these writings—"The Pre-Śrāddha Chapter". Please grant me permission.

Mother and I...
About 20 kilometres from Srinagar, Kashmir. On the way to Sonmarg.
8 January 2020

Disbelief in Belief

There is an old saying— "Faith brings things together; argument drives them apart." Faith is a universal emotion, widely and continuously exercised. Simultaneously, often, "belief" is one of the most confusing and deceitful notions. If its illusions remained confined within, that would be tolerable. But frequently, belief becomes a weapon — wielded by the fanatical, the ignorant, and the violent — to justify their own selfish ends. If we study human history over the past few centuries, perhaps its most tragic pattern has been the imposition of one's belief (or disbelief) upon others — by force, coercion, or fear. In the name of religion. In the name of tradition, of politics, of society. In the name of the nation, of nationalism. Impose. Enforce. Do not ask. Do not understand. Just believe.

I do not "believe" (or rather, I do not want to "believe"). If you ask me, "Do you believe in God?" I would reply, "Hold on. You've already jumped to the next level — to belief in God. But I don't even believe in belief itself."

Let me explain. Would you ever say, "I believe that Bangalore is in Karnataka"? Wouldn't you simply say, "I know Bangalore is in Karnataka"? In the same way, would you say, "I believe I have two hands, two eyes, and one nose"? Or wouldn't you say, "I know I do"? Where is this vague, ambiguous belief even coming from? There are human faculties — hope, trust, assumption, reverence, and above all, Love. But instead of engaging those emotions fully, or even acknowledging them, belief just barges in and often knots everything up into a mess.

It may be that belief helps many people. But not me. I cannot even comprehend its scope, let alone "believe" in it. If I ask you what the antonym of the word "knowing" is, you would say, "The opposite of 'knowing'? That's easy! 'Not knowing' or 'unknowing.'" You are right! But might the opposite of "knowing" also be "believing"? You either know, or you don't. If you don't, you are left with two choices — either admit you don't know, or you just "believe".

Does something exist? If so, how? Who is He? What is His nature? I have no answers. I only know that "it would be nice if He existed", because it would align with my worldview, maybe even bring some comfort. And in that void, belief often rushes in — clutching, clinging.

I don't deny the importance of belief in providing personal solace. But believing without knowing leaves behind a friction — a doubt. You can force your belief on others. But how do you force it on yourself, honestly?

I do not believe in belief.

My Mother, in the Garcha Road area of Kolkata.
Photograph taken on 24 November 2019.
A significant part of my Mother's childhood was spent in this Garcha locality.
The photo was taken in front of the house of the late Dr. Nihar Munshi,
a renowned eye specialist of this area at the time.

Innumerable Queries

Now imagine an oil painting. 

A person — male or female — however you like. Maybe imagine yourself. The setting is dreamlike — a haze of colours, diffuse and mysterious. A thousand hues scatter like powder across the canvas. The background is blurred but vibrant.

The person is clutching their head with both hands — as though in pain — perhaps pulling at their hair. Their mind is a whirlwind. Words, voices, thoughts, fragments, storming within and without. The noise is deafening. So many voices, shouting opinions, screaming beliefs. Each insists— "Follow me. Only I know the truth."

The person cannot bear it. They are unable to contain such clamour within their fragile heart. Everywhere — blue, black, brown arrows of belief, like demons out of pandæmonium, chasing with spears. One subject, a hundred opinions. One person, infinite judgments.

So many doubts take root deep within the mind. One preaches materialism, another swears by spirituality. Some raise the flag of socialism, while others march under capitalism. One religion speaks of endless rebirths — the soul returning again and again. Another flatly rejects this, instead saying that after death, the soul enters Barzakh — a kind of threshold — until the Day of Judgment, when it rises again and is judged

And it's not just confusion — hypocrisy thrives too. A butcher speaks of mercy while cutting a goat's throat. A so-called revolutionary, whisky glass in hand, rants about the working class. A man steeped in corruption gives lectures on honesty. Someone with a history of abuse now posts "We want justice" (#WeWantJustice) after a tragic assault case — and earns applause.

Even in the solemn rituals — annaprashana, upanayana, vivaha, śrāddha — a thousand doubts swirl inside.

Do this with your right hand. That with your left. Sprinkle water like so. Offer rice with the ring finger. Tilt the pot downward. Pour water into the pot with your thumb pointing downwards... It's exhausting.

A lump of rice, mixed with sesame seeds (til) — a casually prepared riceball that you or I would not eat ourselves and would not even think of consuming — we are offering it to all the gods and ancestors! At a yajna or marriage, we are praying for abundant crops in our fields! For our cows to give a lot of milk! But hold on — I don’t even have a paddy field, or a cowshed full of cows! So what am I even praying for?

I don't even know what a soul truly is. Still, I'm told it lingers after death—calling, whispering, staying close to those it loved. In many cultures, people believe elaborate (and costly) rituals help the soul find peace. And while I can’t even define what a soul means, entire epics have been written about it.

It might have been easier if the noise came only from outside. But your mind becomes a battlefield — filled with invasive thoughts, primal instincts, genetic imprints, and fragments of buried pain. There's no hiding from it.

Escape isn't an option. Wherever you turn, a flood of voices comes crashing in, a storm of beliefs, ideologies, opinions, criticisms, advice, and mockery will rush at you like arrows and spears. Meanwhile, your own subconscious won't spare you either — it will tear you apart from within. Your own subconscious becomes your fiercest attacker.

So much chaos! So much noise!

This Is Not a Critique

In such a state of confusion and fatigue, I prepare to perform my Mother's Śrāddha on Friday, 8 August 2025. Look, my intention is not to criticise any Vedic rituals or the accounts of other religions like Islam. I am not here to point out flaws in communism or democracy.

Maybe with deeper thought, I would find metaphor or ancient relevance in these rituals. Maybe in older times, everyone wore dhotis — hence rituals were conducted that way. Maybe sacred threads (upavīta) served as identifiers for learned men in a world without certificates. Maybe Prophet Muhammad and his followers ate dates simply because dates were abundant. When I search for the roots of rituals, I sometimes find purpose. But until I know, until I understand, how can I believe in an abstraction?

Whose Portrait Was It?

Let me ask you, that imagined person in "Innumerable Queries" —

whose portrait was that? Honestly — that person is me. And also — my Mother.

Too much noise. Too much criticism and mockery. Too much imposition — of belief, of conduct. And when one doesn't or can't comply, the result is ridicule, criticism, rejection. I see myself, my Mother, and many others in that figure.

My Mother's death certificate says "cardiac arrest". But that's just the final word, not the whole story. The truth is quieter — harder to explain. This noise, this invisible weight — both around her and within — had been wearing her down for years. Now, it's doing the same to me. And maybe, to you too.

For now, the Śrāddha for my mother lies ahead. I will try to perform this duty as well as I can. This third chapter — The Pre-Śrāddha Chapter — comes to a close.

Charaiveti.

স্বপ্না দত্ত, আমার মা (Swapna Dutta, my Mother)

• ● বাংলায় পড়ুন: প্রথম অধ্যায়, দ্বিতীয় অধ্যায়, তৃতীয় অধ্যায় (সংযোজন), চতুর্থ অধ্যায় (প্রথম পরিচ্ছেদ, দ্বিতীয় পরিচ্ছেদ, তৃতীয় পরিচ্ছেদ)
• ● Read in English: First Chapter, Second Chapter, Third Chapter (Addendum), Fourth Chapter (Part I, Part II, Part III)

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