Memories are from three decades back in Kolkata. Pictures are from today in Bandra, Mumbai.
Sitting and chatting with my friends outside the building puja pandal. Aware that the clock is ticking furiously. Willing it to slow down, but time stops for no one. Not even the Goddess.
Building aunties walking back after shindoor khela. Distributing mishthi to us. The shondesh would be sindoor smudged. Sweet nevertheless. Don’t know about the sugar spike, but we loved the sugar rush.
Lunch time for the building residents. Mutton or goat meat would be the star back in Kolkata (veg in Mumbai as it’s a public meal). As a curry, or in a biryani. The grandest feast of the puja.
We would serve food for the last time. Then sit down to eat. The flavour palate? Bitter sweet.
Evening would be bhaashan time. We would head down to the large pond close by. When we were very small, then mum would ask one of the building aunties, Debi Kakima, to keep an eye on my brother on me to make sure we were safe as mum would not come with us. A few years later it was my duty to keep an eye on my brother. ‘Stay away from the water,’ my mum would tell us before we left.
Durga mai ki joy, aashchhe bochhor abar hobe, we’d shout cheerfully as our procession walked down the inner lanes from Bansdroni to Regent Park. We reached our destination eventually. Touched the feet of the goddess. The flimsy weapons would be taken off from the Goddess’ hands and distributed among us. The trishul was the most coveted. Garlands and flowers would be distributed as well. I’d take a flower to keep between the pages of my Math textbook. Divine intervention was needed to escape the dreaded red mark.
The goddess would be slowly immersed. There would be a lump in our throats as we folded our hands in prayer till we could see her no more.
The purut moshai would sprinkle Ganga jol on us after we returned. My friends and I would do kolakuli (embrace each other three times), touch the feet of elders to seek their blessings. You say Shubho Bijoya only after the Goddess has been immersed.
We’d sit on rickety folding wooden chairs & chat late into the night. Relishing the treat of luchi, alu and dorbesh made by the pooja chefs.
Then we went back to our homes.
The music was over. It was back to normal.
Aaschhe bochhor hobe.