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Maa Comes home: Sashti

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The day began at sunrise. My brother woke us up, reminding us that Chandi Puja was scheduled to start at 6 a.m. The quiet of the morning soon gave way to the rhythmic chants of shlokas, and with that the day unfolded into one steeped in devotion, tradition, and togetherness.

The Young Purohits: Tradition in New Hands
This year’s puja carried a unique touch — the rituals were conducted by a group of young purohits in their twenties. It was both heartening and reassuring to watch tradition being carried forward so earnestly. What struck me most was a young Purohit, a student doing his masters, reciting the Chandi Path with impeccable diction and clarity.

As I listened, memories came rushing back, of my childhood, when my eldest uncle would perform the Chandi Path. That sound had long been my only reference for this sacred recitation. Watching the next generation step into that role was a reminder of how rituals survive through continuity, transforming into lived heritage.

The Sacred Offering: Bhog-er Prasad
Around noon, it was time for the bhog-er prasad. This is not a meal in the conventional sense but a divine mash-up of everything offered to Maa — from lemon to Anna bhog to payesh. The mix, though unusual, always tastes heavenly, not only for its flavors but because it is sanctified as Maa’s blessing.

Evening Rituals: Sashti, Kola Bou and Pran Pratistha
The evening brought with it the rituals of Sashti and the preparation of Kola Bou, symbolizing the nine sacred plants or Nabapatrika. Kola Bou reinforces our eternal connection with nature, reminding us that the festival is as much about celebrating divinity as it is about honoring the earth that sustains us. This was followed by the elaborate ritual of Pran Pratishtha, when life is invoked in the idol.

Beyond the Mandap: The Joy of Togetherness
But puja is never just about rituals. It is about everything that happens around the rituals — the pranks, the eagerness to dress up, slipping back into the cool AC room after braving the heat of the mandap, and the endless adda sessions that spill over from morning to night. These moments are what bind families and generations, adding warmth to the devotion.

A Day to Remember
Chandi Puja is said to be an integral part of Durga Puja, yet for me it has always carried the memory of one elder’s voice, one family moment. Experiencing it in this way — led by the young, shared in the company of many, and accompanied by laughter and joy — made the day unforgettable.

Durga Puja is not just worship; it is living culture. It is where tradition meets memory, devotion meets joy, and Maa comes home in a thousand little ways.

When Maa Comes Home – Panchami

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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. And here, a family carrying on this grand tradition at home.

I woke up before dawn, ran across airports to catch connecting flights, and landed in the sweltering heat and humidity of Silchar. It was Panchami—the fifth day of Navratri—and time for the first ritual, Bodhon, where Maa Durga is ceremonially invited.

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.

A Sunday Morning in Hauz Khas: Walking Through Layers of Time

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Hauz Khas has always been that buzzing South Delhi address — synonymous with nightlife, chic cafés, designer boutiques, and a medley of world cuisines. For me, it had long existed as that happening urban village, where the city comes to unwind. Someone had once mentioned there were “some old monuments” tucked away there, but then, Delhi has monuments scattered like punctuation marks in its long, layered history.

So when an email from INTACH dropped into my inbox about a heritage walk through Hauz Khas, curiosity nudged me to sign up. That is how, on a quiet Sunday morning, I found myself standing with fellow history enthusiasts at the gates of the Hauz Khas mosque — ready to peel back the centuries, guided by the brilliant storyteller Ratnendu Roy.

Stepping Into a Medieval Campus

Hauz Khas was originally built by Alauddin Khilji and reached its pinnacle under Firoz Shah Tughlaq. As we walked into the mosque and madrasa complex — complete with hostel cells once meant for students — it was easy to imagine its glory days: serene gardens, the expansive water tank shimmering beyond, and scholars breathing life into its stone corridors.

Tucked within the complex are several tombs, the most prominent being that of Firoz Shah himself. Legend has it that the surrounding village grew as an ecosystem around this premier centre of learning. Even today, gazing out from the madrasa’s colonnaded windows towards the hauz (reservoir), the scene feels remarkably tranquil — as if time has paused just for a moment.

From Forgotten Village to Trendy Hotspot

Hauz Khas village lay largely forgotten until the mid-1980s, when designers and café owners “discovered” its rustic charm. Boutiques sprang up in old village homes, and the area morphed into Delhi’s go-to party destination. Yet behind the neon signs and polished façades, you can still spot the original mud-brick houses — a whisper of the village it once was.

A short stroll led us into the lush Deer Park. It is one of those rare green islands in Delhi where city sounds dim into silence. Joggers, families, and groups of friends dotted the winding paths. Within its leafy expanse stand two medieval gems: the Lodhi-era Bagh-e-Alam ka Gumbad, said to have taken inspiration from Firoz Shah’s tomb, and the diminutive Kali Gumti, whose cenotaph has vanished into history’s mists.

Munda Gumbad and the Whisper of the Wind

The walk ended at Munda Gumbad — literally the “headless dome” — a pleasure pavilion once located on an island in the middle of the reservoir. Encroachments have since pushed the water’s edge far back, but the charm lingers. Climbing the short steps, I was met with a 360° panorama: the green canopy of the park, the stone silhouettes of monuments, and the glimmering water. A soft breeze wrapped around us, and I found myself imagining an earlier time — boats gliding across the water, ducks splashing, and royalty reclining under the dome to escape the summer sun.

As we were walking towards the Munda Gumbad, a sudden rustling and cacophony above made us look up — a massive colony of bats hung like dark fruits from the branches overhead. I had never seen so many at once; they seemed like watchful guardians of the place’s secrets.

Threads Between Past and Future

Along the walk, our conversations meandered — from vandalised monuments and encroached heritage zones to the challenges of restoration, the scarcity of funds, and the lack of public awareness. It struck me then: history is not just an episode of the past. It is a thread that connects us to the future — a legacy to be understood, protected, and cherished.

A Sunday morning, well spent. A city rediscovered.

Purana Qila and Me: A Sunday Rediscovery

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The Rant Before the Romance

Let’s get this out of the way — navigating to Purana Qila or even the Delhi Zoo is a task that tests patience. You’d imagine that such landmark institutions would be well-marked, but no. The absence of clear road signage makes you meander through a confusing network of turns and traffic. You arrive more relieved than excited. Rant over.

First Glimpses, Lasting Impressions

My relationship with Purana Qila began from a distance. I first came to Delhi in 2003. Living in Noida and working in Connaught Place, my daily commute via Mathura Road brought me past those imposing fort walls. Every day, I’d glance at them and wonder — what stories do those stones hold?

But like many things in life, wonder didn’t translate into action. During those five years in Delhi, I never crossed the threshold.

A Scorching Start

Years later, Delhi called me back. This time, I finally entered the fort — albeit during one of its infamous blistering summers. The heat was relentless, and the visit brief, rushed, and largely overshadowed by the lure of an air-conditioned retreat.

This Sunday: A Walk Through Time

Last Sunday, I joined a heritage walk with Enroute Indian History. The experience was different — thoughtful, immersive, and filled with the kind of stories that give walls a voice.

Purana Qila, they said, was built on the ruins of history itself. The Mughal emperor Humayun built his capital, Dinpanah, here. His rival, Sher Shah Suri, later took over, expanding and fortifying the structure into what we now see — layers of ambition etched in sandstone.

The Talaqi Darwaza Mystery

We stopped at the Talaqi Darwaza — a magnificent gateway sealed shut for nearly 200 years. The River Yamuna used to flow next to the fort, and one can still see the boat landings at the Talaqi Darwaza and Humayun Darwaza. We were told no one had walked through it in generations. And then, as if summoned by our collective curiosity, a small pedestrian door in the grand gate creaked open. A workman stepped through. Our group rushed toward the passage, only to be gently turned away by the guard. Restoration work, he said. The door may have opened, but not for us.

A glimpse of the forbidden. A tease of time.

Qila-i-Kuhna Mosque: Geometry and Grace

We moved next to the Qila-i-Kuhna Mosque, a corner masterpiece built by Sher Shah. Its intricately carved arches and calligraphy revealed a confluence of power and piety. The upper floor — once reserved for women — hinted at a forgotten intimacy within this public space of worship.

The Baoli: Secret to Sustenance

To counter Delhi’s relentless summers, the fort holds a baoli — a deep stepwell, once connected to the royal hammam through terracotta pipes. It whispers of ancient engineering and the luxury of cool retreats.

Sher Mandal: A Tragic Legacy

Near the baoli stands the octagonal Sher Mandal, once used by Humayun as a library and astronomical observatory. Ironically, this beautiful tower is where he met his tragic end — falling down its steps after hearing the call to prayer.

Traces of the Lost Village

Few today know that a village once thrived within these very walls. The British cleared it out, leaving no trace. Just open lawns and an eerie sense of absence.

Kunti Mandir: Myth Meets Stone

And then, a mythic interlude. Within the fort stands a modest Kunti Mandir, said to link the fort to Indraprastha of the Mahabharata. Not well-preserved, yet quietly potent — a link between epic pasts and empirical history.

From Wondering Outside to Wandering Inside

What was once a fleeting glance from a car window is now a lingering memory. From the outside to the inside, from myth to masonry, from stories overheard to stories remembered — Purana Qila finally revealed itself.

And with that, my Sunday was well spent.

History at Krishna’s Doorstep

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Do most people love hoarding things? Even the ones that don’t work anymore? I certainly do. But space is finite, and eventually, sentiment has to bow to practicality.

One casualty of this weekend’s decluttering was my old point-and-shoot camera — long kaput, yet faithfully carried through every house shift. In its final moments, it gave me a parting gift: an SD card with forgotten photographs.

They took me back almost a decade, to a time when my mother and I were enthusiastic long-weekend travelers. And to one trip in particular — to Krishnanagar in West Bengal — born out of nothing less than maternal blackmail.

Blackmail in the Name of Travel

The culprit? My mother. The crime? Forcing me — almost at gunpoint — to accompany her to Mayapur, ISKCON’s headquarters. Her partner, my aunt.

Never keen on religious tourism, I dug deep for excuses. She countered with an irresistible teaser: “There’s more to Mayapur than just ISKCON.” And as they say — “Tujhe sab he pata hai, na Ma.”

A little research revealed that the area was steeped in history. Soon, my resistance melted into curiosity.

The Journey Begins

Mayapur lies at the confluence of the Ganges and Jalangi rivers, in West Bengal’s Nadia district, about 130 km from Kolkata. It’s near Navadwip, the seat of Vaishnavism, and is considered the birthplace of Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, regarded as Krishna’s incarnation.

We booked ISKCON guesthouse rooms through their Kolkata office, checked in, and immediately set off for our first stop: Palashi — better known as Plassey.

Palashi — Where History Changed Hands

On June 23, 1757, Palashi witnessed the Battle of Plassey — a turning point in Indian history. Nawab Siraj ud-Daulah’s forces fell to Robert Clive’s East India Company, paving the way for British dominance in Bengal and eventually the subcontinent.

Arriving at the site, we found nothing but green fields. A paan shop owner confirmed, “Yes, the battle was fought here… but now we grow crops.” No plaques, no elaborate memorials — just paddy swaying in the wind.

My driver refused to let the anticlimax stand. Guided by an elderly local, we eventually found a small, plain monument marking the spot. For a battle that altered India’s destiny, the simplicity was striking.

Krishnanagar — Churches, Palaces, and Clay Dolls

From Palashi, we headed to Krishnanagar. Our first stop: the Roman Catholic Church — an elegant cathedral housing 27 oil paintings depicting the life of Jesus Christ, alongside intricate wooden sculptures by Italian artists.

Catholic missionaries arrived in the region as early as the 17th century, and the current church was built in 1899 by Bishop Frances Pozzi.

The mood shifted when we visited the Rajbari of Raja Krishna Chandra Rai. Once a royal showpiece, the palace now serves as a parking lot and fairground. The grandeur has faded, its arches and courtyards bearing the scars of neglect.

Ghurni, however, brought back the charm. This neighbourhood remains a hub for Krishnanagar clay dolls, a tradition championed by Raja Krishna Chandra himself. The lifelike figurines, some no taller than a thumb, seemed to hold entire stories in their painted expressions.

Ballal Dhipi — Unearthing the Past

The next day took us to Ballal Dhipi in Bamunpukur village — a 30-foot-high mound spread over 1,300 square feet. Excavated in the 1980s, it revealed a massive brick complex, stucco heads, terracotta figurines, and copper utensils — dating as far back as the 8th–9th centuries, with later structures attributed to the 12th-century Sena dynasty ruler, Ballal Sen.

Standing there, with the wind carrying whispers of centuries past, it felt like touching the layered skin of Bengal’s history.

A Line on the Map

On our way back to Kolkata, a roadside sign brought a geographic surprise: “You are now crossing the Tropic of Cancer.” Not many trips let you straddle history and geography in the same breath.

And Mayapur?

That tale will need another trip — and another story.

As for this one, the blackmail was worth it. My mother loved the historical detour, even if she missed the spiritual one she had planned. And I walked away with a camera full of memories I’d only rediscover years later.

Tracing Flowers, Faith, and Forgotten Thrones: A Walk Through Mehrauli’s Living History

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Delhi doesn’t reveal itself all at once. It unspools in layers — a whisper here, a ruin there, a breeze carrying the scent of marigolds and memory. On a quiet Sunday morning, I joined a heritage walk curated by Enroute Indian History, tracing the sacred and ceremonial path of Phoolwalon ki Sair — the annual festival of flowers, peace, and communal harmony held in Mehrauli.

But what I encountered was far more than just a trail of rituals — it was a journey through the soul of Delhi.

Where the City Began: Yogmaya Temple

Our walk began at the Yogmaya Temple, one of the few surviving temples from ancient Delhi and possibly as old as the city itself. It stands tucked away in the heart of Mehrauli, quiet yet powerful, like the still eye of a storm that has raged for centuries around it.

Long before Mehrauli acquired its present name, the area was known as Yoginipur — the city of yoginis. The temple, dedicated to Goddess Yogmaya (a sister of Krishna in mythology), still plays a central role during Phoolwalon ki Sair, with floral offerings made here alongside those at the nearby Dargah. As we stood beneath the age-worn arches, time itself seemed to slow down.

A Tomb with a Curse: Adam Khan’s Memorial

Not far from the temple, we made a detour to the tomb of Adam Khan, a monument steeped in local lore. Adam Khan, the foster brother of Akbar, was executed for treason, flung twice from the ramparts of Agra Fort to ensure death.

His tomb stands out for its Indo-Islamic architecture, reminiscent of Delhi Sultanate-era design rather than typical Mughal grandeur. It is said that no local woman of Mehrauli visits the tomb, believing it to be cursed. The only women who do are usually tourists or history students, like us. The air around the tomb is oddly heavy — less reverence, more caution.

A Sacred Journey: Dargah of Khwaja Bakhtiyar Kaki

We then followed the festival’s spiritual trail to the Dargah of Khwaja Bakhtiyar Kaki, the 13th-century Sufi saint and disciple of Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti of Ajmer. A contemporary of Sultan Iltutmish, Kaki is revered as one of Delhi’s patron saints, and his shrine continues to draw pilgrims, politicians, and poets.

It is said that every ruler of Delhi sought the blessings of Sufi saints to gain legitimacy, and this Dargah, in particular, carries that aura of sanctified power.

As we stepped inside the whitewashed courtyard, a qawwal seated by the gateway began to sing. His voice, deep and raw, cut through the morning stillness, carrying the lyrics of Chaap Tilak. The Dargah came alive — not with grandeur, but with music, faith, and centuries of longing.

A Forgotten Well of Healing: Gandak ki Bawli

On the way to the Dargah, we stopped at the near-forgotten Gandak ki Bawli — a stepwell slowly sinking into neglect, yet once central to local life. Gifted by Iltutmish to the Dargah, the stepwell was believed to possess healing powers, and pilgrims would take a dip in its waters before offering prayers.

Later studies revealed the water had a high sulphur content, lending some scientific basis to the belief that it could cure skin ailments and other illnesses. Today, the water is stagnant, the steps cracked, but the legend still lingers — like a half-remembered dream.

Where the Empire Withered: Zafar Mahal

The final stop of our walk was the Zafar Mahal, the summer residence of Bahadur Shah Zafar, Delhi’s last Mughal emperor. Mehrauli, cooler than the rest of Delhi due to its elevation and greenery, became the seasonal retreat of the royal court. And this retreat wasn’t symbolic — the emperor moved with his whole retinue, even shifting the throne to Mehrauli for the duration.

Inside the Mahal is the Moti Masjid, a private prayer space built by Zafar himself. But the site is not just a reminder of royal solitude — it is also the stage for a powerful piece of local lore.

People in Mehrauli still say that the proximity of Zafar Mahal to the Dargah was a fateful misstep. “Sufi badshah se bada hota hai,” they say — a Sufi saint is greater than a king. Perhaps it was no coincidence, they whisper, that the Mughal Empire collapsed soon after. Bahadur Shah Zafar, the poet-emperor, would eventually die in exile, far from his beloved Delhi, and never be laid to rest in the tomb he had built for himself beside the Dargah.

A City of Shadows and Fragrance

As I walked back through Mehrauli’s bylanes, the scent of mogra, the hum of old qawwalis, and the echoes of royal processions accompanied me. Delhi, I realized, isn’t just a city of monuments — it is a city of memory, myth, and mood. Every stone here remembers. Every shrine still breathes.

Phoolwalon ki Sair may be celebrated once a year, but the path it takes is eternal — a living map of Delhi’s soul, etched in fragrance, footsteps, and faith.