Durga Puja: A celebration shadowed by forgotten reverence

In the heart of Calcutta, where the air is thick with the smoke of dhunachis and the reverberation of dhols, the city celebrates yet another Durga Puja. But this year, the festivities are laced with sorrow, haunted by the memory of a young life lost in tragic circumstances. Despite the usual joyousness, there’s an undertone of grief mingling with the seasonal fervor. For a brief moment, though, the anguish may be eclipsed by the drumbeats, as Calcutta plunges into the annual celebration.

Growing up, October was the most anticipated month of the year for me. I was fortunate to experience three different versions of the festival, thanks to my cosmopolitan family background. My mother, of Nepalese descent, introduced us to Dashain, a festival rich with tradition and ritual. In Nepal, Dashain was marked by animal sacrifices—mostly buffaloes—symbolizing the victory of good over evil. I vividly remember my childhood visits to Nepal, where my uncles would prepare for the season by hunting boars and collecting the requisite animals for sacrifice. The atmosphere was thick with the anticipation of the festival, an intoxicating mix of reverence and revelry. I recall one particular autumn evening when I joined a group of local boys in Nepal. We formed a makeshift singing troupe, going door to door, belting out traditional songs and dancing in exchange for cash, or for the bolder among us, the odd bottle of rum. There was something magical about those nights, wandering from house to house, warmed by the sense of community and a few sips of rum. It wasn’t just about celebrating a festival; it was about the thrill of being a part of something greater than ourselves.

My father, on the other hand, was raised in a Bengali environment. As a result, Durga Puja became an integral part of our family traditions. Our house would be transformed with the flickering light of diyas and the faint smell of incense lingering in the air. Female relatives would move gracefully around the house, carrying puja thalis, while the men gathered outside, smoking and sharing stories. It was also a time for new clothes, and I remember the excitement of shopping trips where my parents would buy us crisp, freshly ironed outfits. For a child, there was no greater thrill than donning new clothes and joining the neighborhood children in an impromptu game of hide and seek. When I was a bit older, my father’s work took us to Delhi, and thus another version of the festival entered my life. In North India, Dussehra was celebrated with a sense of theatrical grandeur. Every year, my father would pile us into his old red Morris Minor and drive to the Ram Lila grounds. I remember the electric feeling in the air as the giant effigies of Ravana, Meghnad, and Kumbhakarna went up in flames. We never missed the spectacle of Ravana’s ten heads catching fire, a vivid portrayal of the triumph of good over evil. The adrenaline rush was something we chased year after year, along with the obligatory purchase of paper swords, bows and arrows, and of course, Hanuman’s mace, which we wielded with all the valor of a child’s imagination.

These were the threads of my childhood, woven into a tapestry of fun, spirituality, and community. Festivals were a time when differences dissolved, and people came together in a shared sense of joy. As I grew older, the rituals took on new meanings. For me, the most valuable aspect of the celebrations became the chance to reconnect with old friends, relive memories, and pay homage to a deity who had been a constant presence throughout my life, even as I drifted away from organized religion.

But as I look around at the Puja celebrations now, they seem different. The sparkle has faded, replaced by a cacophony of traffic restrictions and bureaucratic rules.

This year, the festivities kicked off with an examination of traffic curbs, as if navigating a maze before we could even begin to celebrate. And if that wasn’t enough, there was the perennial struggle to avoid the VIPs, who seem to believe that their status grants them exclusive access to the divine. The idea that the gods might favor those who come bearing extravagant gifts is almost laughable. Yet, here we are, elbowed out of the way by those who fancy themselves as modern-day pharaohs.

My days of wandering through pandals are behind me now. A diagnosis of gout has put an end to my carefree strolls, but there’s more to it than just physical discomfort. There’s a weight on my heart, a sense of irony that feels too heavy to bear. It’s strange to think that we’re celebrating Maa Durga so soon after we desecrated her in the most deplorable way imaginable. We proclaim ourselves to be a society that worships women, holding them up as mothers, daughters, sisters, and goddesses. But when it comes to real women, our actions tell a different story.

In a country that professes to revere women, we have mastered the art of selective memory. We burn brides for dowry, abandon female babies, and commit unspeakable acts of violence against women, only to forget these atrocities until the next one occurs. We have found a way to absolve ourselves of guilt by hiding behind the veil of spirituality. This is the land of Maa Durga, Maa Kali, and Maa Lakshmi, but it’s also a land where a woman’s worth is often determined by her ability to fit into predefined roles that are as fragile as they are arbitrary.

I remember an incident from my childhood, one that I didn’t fully understand until much later. It was during one of our Durga Puja celebrations, and I was helping my mother in the kitchen. She was making sweets, the kind we would distribute to neighbors and family friends. In the middle of our preparations, there was a loud knock at the door. My father opened it to find a young girl, barely in her teens, standing there with bruises on her face. She was a neighbor’s daughter, married off too young and suffering at the hands of her husband. My mother invited her in, and we spent the evening listening to her story, feeling a helplessness that I couldn’t quite grasp at the time. That memory has stayed with me, a stark reminder of the contradictions that lie at the heart of our celebrations.

This year, the lights of the pandals seem dimmer to me, their glow unable to dispel the darkness that has settled in my heart. Maybe it’s age, or maybe it’s a growing impatience with a world that seems to be losing its kindness. I miss the gentler days of my youth, when the noise of the bells and conches was soothing rather than grating, and conversations rarely revolved around tragedy. There was a time when you could walk into a home or a café without needing to check the name on the door. We were like the wind, free to drift among the trees, indifferent to their origins or their names.

Maa Durga has always been a source of comfort, a healer for those who seek her. But I wonder if even she can continue to embrace those who remember her only during the festival season, then promptly forget her teachings as soon as the idols are submerged in the rivers. We, the faithful, have failed her in more ways than one. And as I sit here, contemplating another Puja season, I find myself wondering if we will ever learn to see the divine in the women around us, or if we will continue to worship idols while ignoring the living embodiments of the goddess that walk among us every day.

This year, I find myself longing for the warmth of a simpler time, for the gentle murmur of voices sharing stories of hope and resilience. I find myself yearning for a world where Maa Durga is not just a lifeless idol to be worshiped once a year, but a living presence in our daily lives, guiding us towards a future where women are truly revered, not just as goddesses but as human beings deserving of respect, kindness, and love. And as I watch the lights flicker in the pandals, I can only hope that one day, we will live up to the ideals we claim to celebrate.

Views expressed are personal