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The Ashtami evening draws onto the lit up streets endless queues of pandal hoppers, as they stroll their way into the puja premises. It is as if a giant hand had scooped the stars from their constellations and have let it slip through the fingers across the heart of Kolkata, alighting every corner of the city in a fascinating glow of celebrations.
I step off the road following the collective ringing of conch shells to enter a locality pandal and occupying a relatively empty corner, watch the rituals of the evening aarti pack the air with an unsaid devotion. The priest, up their on the makeshift platform, clad in a vest and dhoti, moved in a slow dancing rhythm, waving a bunch of sandalwood incense before the idol. His one hand relentlessly rolling over a brass bell. The metallic jingle in sync with the set of enthusiastic Dhakis, as they drummed their heart out at the foot of the platform. At once striking life in the heart of people, as devotees thronged into the pandal in large numbers. Women adorned exquisite silk sarees. Their laughing faces, perhaps, sealing off some painful truths, beneath a delicate touch of colors. The mundane world suddenly sidelined in their eyes. The heart, at once, rid of sorrows. Light and full of loveliness. Men, in long embroidered kurtas, stood their ground. Often participating in a candid conversation. Their eyes laden with promises they wish to uphold. Kids, all too indulged in their new found freedom, chased one another in a game that brings back to me the sweet memories of my childhood evenings.
Every face in the crowd had a different prayer written over it. I tried to read their silent pleas, all of which, knotted around the undying love for the Goddess. Above all the humdrum there, I feel I could hear them in my heart. A lady wishing for the well being of her family. A young man praying for his beloved. A graduate promising an offering in exchange of job. A mother begging life for her ailing son. An old man calling for his peaceful death. Every single prayer of those and many more, I knew, had their struggles written over their very utterance.
However, it was amid the wonderful chaos, above the lilting of bells and the hollering music from the Dhakis, the sandalwood smoke lending to the evening a scent of liberation, that every other pain seemed diminished. Washed away beneath the heartfelt celebration of the Goddess visiting her paternal house. The immortal Shakti blessing her children with health and happiness. A middle aged man then, I saw, in a clean white kurta, pick up the Dhunuchi, the incense burner, and dance out the joy within as an offering to Goddess Durga. Thick smoke wafting from dried coconut skin, makes my eyes water.
With the aarti drawing to a close, I curl my palms around the flame on a brass burner to seek warmth and pressing it across my forehead, I close my eyes and write to the air my soul offerings.
I step off the road following the collective ringing of conch shells to enter a locality pandal and occupying a relatively empty corner, watch the rituals of the evening aarti pack the air with an unsaid devotion. The priest, up their on the makeshift platform, clad in a vest and dhoti, moved in a slow dancing rhythm, waving a bunch of sandalwood incense before the idol. His one hand relentlessly rolling over a brass bell. The metallic jingle in sync with the set of enthusiastic Dhakis, as they drummed their heart out at the foot of the platform. At once striking life in the heart of people, as devotees thronged into the pandal in large numbers. Women adorned exquisite silk sarees. Their laughing faces, perhaps, sealing off some painful truths, beneath a delicate touch of colors. The mundane world suddenly sidelined in their eyes. The heart, at once, rid of sorrows. Light and full of loveliness. Men, in long embroidered kurtas, stood their ground. Often participating in a candid conversation. Their eyes laden with promises they wish to uphold. Kids, all too indulged in their new found freedom, chased one another in a game that brings back to me the sweet memories of my childhood evenings.
Every face in the crowd had a different prayer written over it. I tried to read their silent pleas, all of which, knotted around the undying love for the Goddess. Above all the humdrum there, I feel I could hear them in my heart. A lady wishing for the well being of her family. A young man praying for his beloved. A graduate promising an offering in exchange of job. A mother begging life for her ailing son. An old man calling for his peaceful death. Every single prayer of those and many more, I knew, had their struggles written over their very utterance.
However, it was amid the wonderful chaos, above the lilting of bells and the hollering music from the Dhakis, the sandalwood smoke lending to the evening a scent of liberation, that every other pain seemed diminished. Washed away beneath the heartfelt celebration of the Goddess visiting her paternal house. The immortal Shakti blessing her children with health and happiness. A middle aged man then, I saw, in a clean white kurta, pick up the Dhunuchi, the incense burner, and dance out the joy within as an offering to Goddess Durga. Thick smoke wafting from dried coconut skin, makes my eyes water.
With the aarti drawing to a close, I curl my palms around the flame on a brass burner to seek warmth and pressing it across my forehead, I close my eyes and write to the air my soul offerings.
Author - Sobhan Pramanik
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