16/10/2025
Mother Arrives in the City
The streets of Kolkata were already alive before dawn. From Kumartuli’s narrow lanes came the sweet smell of wet clay — the sculptors were giving the final touches to the idol of Maa Durga. The goddess’s eyes — chokkhudaan — were yet to be painted, and everyone waited with a sacred hush for that divine moment.
Among the artists was little Ritu, a twelve-year-old girl who watched her father, Prabir Pal, work tirelessly through the night. His hands moved with devotion as he shaped the goddess’s calm yet fierce face. “Baba,” she whispered, “Why do you make Maa every year if she goes away after four days?”
Prabir smiled. “Because, my child, she never really leaves. She lives in every smile, every lamp, every heart that prays for good.”
As Mahalaya morning came, the first sound of Birendra Krishna Bhadra’s “Mahishasuramardini” floated through the radio. Ritu ran to the balcony — the sky was crimson, filled with migrating birds. She could almost imagine Maa descending from the heavens, riding her lion, her ten hands shimmering in gold.
The next few days passed in a whirl of joy. The whole para (neighborhood) buzzed with energy — pandals rising at every corner, lights twinkling like stars. The air smelled of incense, flowers, and bhog khichuri.
On Saptami, Ritu wore her new red-bordered saree for the first time. She held her father’s hand as they went for pushpanjali. Bells rang, conch shells echoed, and for a moment, she felt as if Maa herself was smiling down upon them.
During Ashtami anjali, she closed her eyes and prayed — not for toys or sweets, but for her father’s health and happiness. She had seen his tired hands, his sleepless nights, and she wanted Maa to bless him with peace.
Then came Dashami — the farewell. Women smeared each other with sindoor, their laughter mixed with tears. Ritu stood near the riverbank watching the idol being immersed in the Ganga. The drums rolled one last time — “Asche bochor abar hobe!” (“Next year, it will happen again!”).
As the idol slowly sank, Ritu felt a lump in her throat. But her father placed a hand on her shoulder. “Look at the river, Ritu. She’s not gone. She’s flowing into every home, every heart, every dream.”
That night, when the city lights dimmed and silence fell, Ritu looked up at the stars. Somewhere beyond them, she imagined Maa Durga smiling — waiting to return again next year, when joy, devotion, and togetherness would fill the city once more.
Maa never leaves. She just walks with us — unseen, but always near. 🌺
