Echoes of Durga Puja
A home must always smell like home
In the land where I was born, lived our masters a long ago. Not only were they strong, but also they believed we’d never change. This isn’t meant to diss the British. They built the streets and the bridge. And they built what we now call this city, the city of joy. Walking down the road, I feel that everything I see still relates; yesterday’s gone, but it would never leave. Our times are new, yet nothing’s new.
But, although there is confusion, there is peace. There is a child-like joy in seeing people get ready for Pujo; the guard of police always protecting, and never reflecting an inch of doubt on their dirt-free uniform. Among my fellow devotees, I’m sure, I am not the only one intoxicated. But who else gets drunk with Bhaang just to witness the hubbub on the streets? Who else sees everything, but still cannot read?
With sweat running from across the face, down to the neck, and the body constantly being pushed by the forward marching crowd, the discomfort could make one intolerant. But I am much lighter on my feet, and my thoughts. The substance has left me in a place, where I am no longer the center of this world. Wandering across all day, I have stopped questioning, where I belong to.
But one thing I have grown to notice more than anything else. My hearing has as though brought back to life. With voices ringing in my head in great detail, I can again hear people and know how they feel. The ranting of some people walking past me does not bother me, though. Their complaints regarding the country’s newly enacted laws, do not either. It is the various dialects and languages spoken here that have started to alert me.
Biharis and Marwaris are said to reside in abundance here. However, the peace-loving section of people resembling our very neighboring country live in unimaginable numbers, making me wonder if I’ve somehow crossed the border, as though I too may belong to that land. The sound of the Dhaak music, an integral part of the Durga Puja celebration, is now overshadowed by the loud chants erupting from the loudspeakers. As I now happen to pay attention, the sound floods my senses, a wave of unfamiliar words.
Is it a dream, a figment of the Bhaang, or is this a reality I’ve chosen to ignore for far too long? The line between Kolkata, the city I thought I knew, and a place both familiar and strangely foreign, blurs with each echoing chant, creating a disorienting symphony within my head. The Kolkata I remember, draped in the colors of Durga Puja, feels different today.
Am I still in my city, or have I crossed some invisible border, transported to a land where my own identity feels like a question mark? Where do I belong in this ever-changing world? The Bhaang, that once helped me numb all the pain, now throws me into a crisis, forcing me to confront the complexities of my city and my place within it.
Indian Writer
Thank you for reading..
