And it's that part of the year again.
When Pujo's exactly 30 days away.
And as Bengalis, no matter where we are, we almost magically breathe a different scent in the air from this day on, every year.
[Something my grandmum always used to say, is called 'Pujo'r aamej' in Bangla.]
Last year, this time, I had the fortune of being home.
Watching my city dress itself up, for maa to come visit again.
Tall chopsticks of bamboo filing every street and lane.
And elaborate light decorations encasing them like spiral garlands.
Watching pandals being raised from mark one in every nook.
Bamboos standing like naked skeletons on the roads.
To being festooned with fancy fabric and figures of foam.
Draped with art and heart and sweat and things.
I close my eyes and remember.
I see the idols are all ready.
And the city is decked to kill.
And then I remember the ashtami'r anjali, shada shari laal paar.
Maa'er bhog, khichuri, dhaaker awaj, dhunuchi naach.
And I realise how miraculous each of these is.
To be continuing to make our blood rush in full tide, year after blinking year.
Make our hearts pound to the euphoric beat of the drums.
Make us dance like all the worries of the world have gone on a timely sabbatical.
Make us wolf down platefuls of delicious food like it'll all evaporate tomorrow.
The makeshift installation art.
The quirky fashion riot.
The sea of people, pandals.
The intricate decorations.
Splashing all the colours of the rainbow.
Of life and prayers and dreams and more.
The mother.
She comes and she goes.
Plunging us back to the ugly, the routine.
Dull tedium of life.
And you find yourself wishing every year (without fail), that she stayed a tad bit longer.
Just a few days more.
And when you finally make peace with the fact that she can't.
And when the celebrations fold up.
And when you go to see her off.
You find your heart sinking along with that idol.
Into the crying river.
Again.
It's sad, I know.
It's sad.
But then again, it's as magic as ever.
Every. Single. Year.
My mother.
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