Pujo (The Bengali festival of Goddess Durga)
Dasera (Hindu festival of the victory of good over evil) was always a sad day for me! I talk of a time when life was simple, there was no computer let alone internet, there was one TV channel and that too played just 1-2 hrs of entertainment per day. A time when a cold-drink needed a special occasion, a chocolate was a celebration, and ice cream was more often made at home than bought. A time when every piece of clothing I owned I knew precisely when, where and why it had been bought. A time when sweaters were knitted at home and were actually needed during pujo. This was the time when pujo meant 5 days of pure magic, a time when everything seemed golden; when discipline was not paramount, fun was! A time when I saw my parents be for a while what life otherwise didn’t let them be - carefree.
For four days, afternoons meant drawing competitions, fun games, khichoori (lentil and rice dish) bhog, cold-drinks and ice-creams without reason, haathkhorcha (pocket-money) from elders - ma, baba, kaka, kakima, jetha, mama etc etc, while evenings meant running around unsupervised, hide and seek, pakda-pakdi, adda-golpo, biryani, more ice-cream, mishti, and late nights; movie screenings that started at 12 midnight. A time when projector reels on white curtains still drew in the crowds, plays and dance dramas where kakas (uncles) and kakimas (aunties) became superstars. A time when everyone gathered in expectation to listen live to a maestro because you weren't bombarded by his voice incessantly over a thousand media. A time of playing late into the night until tiredness brought sleep and not the toll of a watch or the deadline on the morrow. A time of riding back home, four people on a scooter, making groups of such scooters headed in the same direction so as to prevent ambush by chor-dakaat (dacoit). Yes, it was a magical time!
Two complete sets of new clothes every day for four days, planned well in advance to the tiniest detail. Some friends you met only on those four days but were never awkward with. The dadas and didis who always seemed to like me, the girls – some whom I liked, others who liked me, the guys that competed - and lost. The flirting and the fights, the snobbery and the confidence, we had it all. It was a time when nothing mattered, nothing bothered you, when eating out was the norm and having fun the only rule.
And late on Navami, when the feet refused to move anymore, and the voice was hoarse and gone, when the eyelids couldn't stop from meeting each other - you said goodbye for the first time in those four days (all other times were just temporary breaks) and went home to wake up on Dasera. It was always a sad day, a day when all my neighbours were celebrating and I had a heavy heart. Durga Ma was going away but that wasn't what made me sad. It was the end of a golden time, a magic that no other time in life has given. Yet I knew it would be back the next year and I couldn't help but look forward to it.
And as the years flowed, the projector disappeared, the scooter became a car, the games reduced, the adda - and the flirting - increased, but the magic remained until finally the flock flew away. Today I see a bunch of new kids with the glint of magic in their eyes, the nights though end earlier and a lot of the fun is not exclusive to pujo as it once was for us.
And most of my dadas and didis and the girls and the competitors are gone, some south, others north, some across the oceans and maybe some across the skies too. But I am sure wherever they are, every sharadiyo sashti or ashtami they at least once remember those grounds and the moments we shared.
So, Dasera still is a sad day for me. Even though all I did in those four days of pujo this year was work, because Dasera still is the exclamation mark at the end of magic!