“Dear Manu,
This year’s Durga Puja is no different in the city- it is as grand as ever. The streets of Kolkata are coming alive again. We went pandal hopping yesterday and started with your favourite, Deshapriya Park. Remember how you would always try and guess what the pandal would look like based on just the bamboo structure? Papa kept mentioning how you would have loved the theme this year; it feels a little empty without you standing beside us decked up in your favourite saree.”
The words blur as I read my mother’s message. I catch myself unconsciously leaning forward, as if going closer to the screen will enable me to breathe in the puja air. Every year it is the same ritual- rushing to get dressed, trying not to trip over my saree, and walking through the crowded streets, where it feels like the entire city is moving in sync. I imagine papa looking at the empty place beside him and realise how much my soul belonged to those moments.Â
“The society puja committee is still the same and they remember how you would be the first one to run down the streets as soon as you heard the dhaakis arrive. Papa and I had some puchka-yes, even your picky father agreed they were good. I laughed and thought about how you managed to find the best vendors no matter where we went. Oh, and the jhalmuri guy that you love so much is still around the corner. He asked us where you were when he did not see you with us.”Â
The city knows me in ways I never fully appreciated. My endless hunt for good puchka and my insistence that jhalmuri is incomplete without the extra squeeze of lemon- it feels strange to be known by a place and to have it ask about your absence. As I close my eyes and think about the dhaakis the beats instantly fill my mind. Muscle memory makes me want to dance, but I sit still on my bed and my heart dances instead.Â
“The festivities at home are also in full swing. Your cousins came over today and the house feels as chaotic as ever, in the best way possible. I cannot help but think how you would tease them and your laughter would fill the house. Even though her hands shake a little more now, dadi still insists on making the sweets because she says no one else gets the consistency right. Without you here, I am helping her with the preparations this time. As we carefully pack them in a box and look for a place to hide it, I remember that you are not here to sneak into the kitchen and steal some. It’s quieter without you here, but everyone sends you their love.” Â
A laugh escapes me but catches in my throat. It is funny how I used to complain about the noise so much and about not getting enough space. I did not think that I would be missing it so much, how everyone talks over each other and somehow, it all makes sense. The dorm room suddenly feels smaller and emptier as the quiet in the house is being mirrored here. My roommate asks me why I look sad, but how do I explain to her that I can almost taste the sweets dadi makes. The way they would crumble when you bit into them but still taste divine, the way she pretended not to notice when I would steal one, then two, then three. Knowing that I am missing it all this year makes it feel distant, almost like I am in a dream that I cannot step into.
“Papa and I are getting everything ready for tomorrow. We are decorating the Goddess’ altar and it is turning out beautifully, but I keep thinking about how you used to help me pick out the flowers. This morning I even took out your favourite saree for dry cleaning. I know you will not be here to wear it, but somehow, I could not bear to leave it in the cupboard.”Â
I don’t know why, but hearing this makes me feel closer to home, like I am still with them, even though I am so far away. I can picture mumma arranging everything perfectly as she always did- taking extra care with the diya placement and making sure every flower is bright enough. And I bet papa is pretending to be busy on his phone, but I know he secretly watches everything she does. Next year, I know I will be back home to wear that saree.Â
“But enough of making you emotional! Studies first, that is what Maa Durga would have wanted. Your little cousin has taken over your role of checking on the bhog preparation- though she is not as good at sneaking tastes without getting caught as you were. Take care of yourself, beta. We all miss you terribly. Durga puja is not the same without you, so we will have to celebrate again when you are back. Until then, keep calling home during the pujo days.Â
All my love,
Mumma”
I touch the screen where her name appears, a gesture so instinctive that it surprises me too. I miss them too- more than words can say. The mess will serve dinner soon- not bhog and definitely not made with the same devotion that makes even the simplest khichdi taste delectable. Every part of this festival feels like a thread connecting me to home, to my family, to my roots. This year, that thread feels a little frayed, stretched across the miles. But as I sit here, away from the chaos and the colours of Kolkata’s biggest celebration, I realise something: no matter where I am, home is still waiting for me, and Durga puja will always be the heart of that home. I just have to hold on until I can return.Â