Durga Puja is special for every Bengali. But this year, it turned extra special. This year, Maa came home.
What does it feel like when Maa comes home?
It feels like months of planning and tons of shopping. It feels like chaos that somehow turns into joy. It feels like generations coming together—airport meetups filled with hugs, endless food, dressing up in silks and kurtas, and continuous adda sessions that carry through the night.
For me, Durga Puja has always been a community festival. My most vivid memory was from Kolkata, when our apartment complex organised the Puja—collective, chaotic, and deeply rooted in togetherness. I had only read about ghar-er pujo—Durga Pujas held at home—or seen them recreated in films. So when my cousin decided to organise one this year, I knew I had to be there.
And let me tell you, to call it “challenging” is an understatement. Durga Puja is often described as a Rajashik puja—one that kings performed.
I woke up before dawn, caught connecting flights, and landed in the sweltering heat and humidity of Silchar. By evening, it was Panchami—the fifth day of Navratri—and time for the first ritual, Pran Pratishtha, the ceremony where life is invoked in the idol.
The evening was filled with frantic activity when a power cut threatened to plunge everything into darkness. Out came our mobile phones, lighting up the puja mandap in a glow both modern and makeshift. But Maa, it seemed, wasn’t amused by this arrangement. The power cut lingered, and finally, generators whirred to life, bathing the mandap in light once more. Just when we thought we would melt away in the humid heat, the electricity returned—as if Maa had decided it was time to ease our troubles.
And then it began. The sounds of the conch, ulu, and dhak filled the air, announcing what our hearts already knew—
Maa had come home.
Jajabor 