Ey, pujo tey tor ki plan? (Hey, what are your plans this Puja?)
No plans, office ache (have office).
Ey ki? Are you not coming home for the Pujas?
Na. Pujo tey Maa asche Kolkata tey, but not me. (This Pujas, Durga Maa is coming to Kolkata, but not me.)
My heart sank after this exchange with one of my friends and I’m down with a bout of major homesickness. I have witnessed 25 Durga Pujas in my life, all in Kolkata, but this is the very first one when I am not in my favourite city.
Kolkata. The city — which is a not just a city for me, but my home and more importantly, an emotion— is prepping to welcome Durga Ma. The City of Joy is at its joyous best. After all, we Calcuttans wait for Pujo each year with bated breath and an utterly infectious festive zeal, while stacking new jamas (clothes) to wear each day during the five-day festivity.
But this year, I will be bringing my social stalking skills to good use — checking how beautiful my city looks, how well the celebrations went on, how well-lit was my para (locality), what my friends are wearing/wore, which pandals they visited, which pandal bagged what award, et al. All this, while staring at my laptop screen, sitting in Mumbai. Because this year isn’t my homecoming, unlike Devi Ma‘s.
I might not be Bengali, but I am from Bengal and the Bengali culture has a huge influence on me. While at my Kolkata bari we celebrate Navratri (not the Gujarati one), each part of the city exudes the Pujo charm which is alluring, inexplicable and unmissable.
And not being present there sucks. BIG time!
It sucks that I won’t wake up to the sound of dhak.
It sucks that I wouldn’t hear those aartis or see the dhunuchi naach.
It sucks that I wouldn’t be able to see the pandals that are sprawling all over the city.
It sucks I can’t walk on the longest alpana-donning Lake Road, this year.
It sucks I wouldn’t get to soak in the smell of puchkas, fish fry, chicken roll, ghugni and every street delicacy served around the corner of any pandal.
It sucks that I wouldn’t be able to gorge on chicken biryani, kasha mangsho, paturi, posto, luchi-aloo dum, daab chingri or my favourite bhoger khichuri.
It sucks that I wouldn’t get confused while salivating at the nearest mishti dukan while trying to pick mishtis to gobble on.
It sucks I wouldn’t be able to hang out with my cousins and play cards all night long or have a full-on adda night.
It sucks I wouldn’t go out with my friends to Park Street or Golpark or to any restaurant for a sumptuous luncheon.
It sucks how I wouldn’t able to feel my mother’s caressing after a long night of pandal-hopping.
It sucks how I wouldn’t be able to nudge my father and literally drag him out of home to go a particular pandal and seek Ma‘s blessings rather let him sit in front of the television set and watch Pujo news.
It sucks to miss the sindoor khela and hearing “asche bochhor abar hobe” echoing throughout the city during the visarjan.
It sucks to miss those loud DJs and bhasaan dance that trails behind Ma‘s trucks. To see them all pass from the balcony and laugh at the exceptional dancers while doing a pranaam to Ma.
It sucks to miss all these things.
It sucks to miss home.
And, more importantly, it sucks to feel you would be missing all these things so damn much that your eyes would prick immediately at a mere mention of Kolkata’s Durga Puja.
But, then exploring Mumbai’s niche-yet-purely-traditional Durga Puja doesn’t seem like a bad idea, does it?