The first thing that comes to my mind when I think of Durga Puja is the goddess's arrival, or rather all the things that herald her arrival. The new clothes, the first pandals, and the cool breeze that signals the changing of seasons. Every year my father took us out to shop.
The rule was the same every year. We wore new clothes to Ashtami anjali, and the red colour had to be there, because red is the festival's colour. That rule remains intact even today.
Those who think Puja starts with the dhak have no idea what it feels like to be in Shakharibazar. I have lived in Sutrapur for 26 years. And the first thing I learned from this place is that the goddess comes not despite the lanes, but through them.
In the Bengali tradition, Durga is not merely the ten-armed warrior who kills Mahishasura. She is also Uma, the daughter who travels to her parents' home from Kailash each autumn along with Lakshmi, Saraswati, Ganesha, and Kartik.
So, the festival is an iteration of that second story. Durga Puja begins on Mahalaya, the day that marks the start of Devi Paksha. All Bengali households wake up before sunrise and start reciting the Chandipath, which is a passage from the Devi Mahatmya of the Markandeya Purana.
The passage tells how the gods, being defeated by Mahishasura, pooled their brightness into one and created Chandi, the powerful goddess who defends against evil with unimaginable power. Chandi is thus the key reason why the festival exists and why it matters.
On that morning of Mahalaya in the potter's quarter of Dhaka city, the sculptors perform (chokkhudan) the giving of the eyes, where the idol has been made over weeks from a straw frame and clay, and painted with the yellow of the shiuli flower, with the eyes painted last.
The tradition holds that the artist observes a fast and prays before performing the first stroke of paint. Up to that moment, the figure is clay and afterwards, she becomes the goddess. This, to me, is the most precious of the customs in the festival, the belief in divinity being not only confined in the idol. When she is given the eyes, she stares back at us. The artisans who do the work are hardly praised in the speeches of the ceremony. Shashthi is the day when she is awakened, thus greeting her.
When I was a kid, I remember that Puja began on Saptami night, becoming very popular among youngsters. I remember how we counted the pandals, thus trying to find out how many pandals we would visit this year. Each year, some Durga looked more beautiful than others and got most attention from us.
October seemed to be very cold then. We walked through Dhaka University to see the mandap. The coldness of the air that we faced then is as hard to forget as the idols I used to see. The campus has changed a lot starting with the weather and finishing with the lighting.
One memory never leaves me. I remember the mandap in the alleys of Goalnagar, where the stories of Puranas were unveiled in the tableaux form. In this tableau, I saw Ganesha circling his mother, stating that she is the whole world. It shocked me initially as I got the lesson related to it only much later.
Names of Ma Durga, such as srishti, sthiti and binashanang as creation, maintenance, and destruction, and shakti-bhute sanatani as eternal power, were explained to children in one lane in Dhaka, not enough wide for the two rickshaws to pass by.
By Ashtami, one can already say that the festival is at its peak. We start fasting from morning and then put on new clothes with red ones and make offerings to the goddess holding palms full of flowers together with many strangers. Another custom is Kumari Puja in which a younger girl is praised as the goddess.
In Dhaka, the best-known place to celebrate that is Ramakrishna Mission, where countless people come together. The last two dozen minutes of Ashtami and the first two dozen of Navami are called Sandhikkhon, and many priests regard it as the most revered hour of the festivities. In advance of this hour, the mandap is silenced as it does at no point other. Each of the one hundred and eight lamps is lit one by one, the flame being transmitted from person to person, and the faces of those gathered around the idol are seen glowing with golden light in darkness. I have experienced this silence a good number of times, and every time it connects me to the spirituality.
At night, when the aroti happens, the sound comes that most people think of when they say Puja. The pujari lifts the lamps in big circles in front of Ma, the conch is blown, the bells sound, and the dhak beats become so strong that you can even feel how your ribs vibrate.
Then the dhunuchi nach commences. Men and women, sometimes children, are dancing with clay incense burners filled with burning coconut husk incense balancing on their mouths, in their necks, and on their heads while the smoke goes in the pandal. It appears that this is fun, yet at the same time, it can be called devotion.
At home, Ashtami has its own taste. When my father was alive, he would prepare Ashtami khichuri, while Dashami is my mother’s turn. Oh, and no Ashtami is complete without my mother’s payesh and luchi. I have a small ritual tradition to hold.
Me and my brother used to fast before anjali when we were children and my father would arrange everything for us fasts taking us to the nearest temple first delaying his offering. As a result, I have been doing anjali first with my brother and then with my father. I continue doing anjali of two offerings now, however, the second one feels empty now. It was too full of worshippers in the temple this year so I had to keep running from one pandal to another, or otherwise it was going to feel incomplete.
As a child, we also used to visit Dhakeshwari together with my whole family. However, afterwards, the visits stopped as the temples appeared not so far from home. This may seem a minor change, though I can observe it every year.
Thus, Sutrapur is not Shakharibazar. In Sutrapur, the pandals are not located along one street. Instead, they are situated in some small places on narrow streets. The pandals of the Bihari Lal Jiu Mandir in Farashganj gives me the biggest impression as its theme is changing every year. There's also the pandal at the North Brook Hall, right next to the old Cafe Corner and Beauty Boarding, where you cannot leave without trying some delicious kaon rice payesh and khashir chaap.
A festival like this one in Old Dhaka brings the entire neighbourhood together. Mudi store milk, sweets and agarbatti beforehand. During October when it is still pretty hot, cold drinks and ice-cream sell out. Conch-shell vendors, drum-makers, flower-sellers, earthen lamp-makers and other light stringers will depend on these five days.
Everyone in the lane has a stake in this business. And the locality plays a crucial role in this happening. Our temple is situated close to a mosque where we observe the time for prayers. During the celebrations, the neighborhood lets others to keep the roads clear.
On Dashami there is extra distribution of laddu, naru, and sandesh, and khichuri is also given for consumption no matter what one believes, is the highest form of communal harmony, a single plate of food shared. I feel fortunate to have been born and grown up here. Living in Sutrapur has helped me to practice my faith as a Hindu and feel at home in that faith. I am aware it is not a happy thing to know, but I have been lucky.
As a child, the festival meant just happiness through new clothes, sweets, dhak, and freedom to roam. But after growing up, I have started seeing the goddess in a different light. She represents adya shakti, the power that has taken the form of trinayani. When the festival comes every year I feel I am growing up and coming closer to divinity.
From being a simple observer, I have become a participant in the rituals of the goddess rather than just an onlooker. But still, the change has not been pleasant. There was a time when Dashami bhog used to be eaten at home during the daytime, followed by visiting mamabari in the evening. Many of my close relatives are no more with us, and so nothing is like it used to. That is the price progress charges us, but video calls help us celebrate together even if being apart.
Even Bijoya Dashami for me has changed now than in my childhood days when we used to go to the ghat and see Ma being immersed in the water. On Dashami day I just go to the pandal nearest to my home and welcome Ma with traditional boron, something I could do for the first time during Corona years. The experience seems beautiful, and I have begun loving the celebration.
But the hardest part remains the moment when Goddess leaves us. It is still painful and seems as if she has left some heavy load in my chest. Aashche bochor abar hobe, as we say. She is going to come back next year. We say it first to ourselves with utmost importantance. Because during Durga Puja, the Hindu community quietly celebrates the event at their homes. All the people of all faiths come to partake in this celebration of Durga Puja, and nobody asks them for their religion. People talk about Durga Puja without realizing that it is not just a religious event but festival for everyone.
What often fails to reach the headlines is the important domestic work that goes behind this. A father waking up early to cook khichuri, a mother standing for hours near the payesh, and a daughter receiving anjali twice because once is not enough and these are the legacies I carry with me.
Preparing for Dashami, I dream of a Bangladesh where a Hindu family can walk to the pandal without fear at night, without a kid ever having to prove she belongs to a community, and where the festival of one is claimed silently by all.
This is not a lofty dream. Sutrapur teaches that it is possible with a temple next to a mosque, a neighbor clearing the street, and a plate of khichuri traveling to the other side. If it can happen in a few crowded streets of Puran Dhaka, it can happen in the entire country.
Ma will leave soon. The drumbeat will change, the sindur will color the faces, and the streets will gradually become empty. But the girl who used to count pandals is still within me, waiting for the next time.
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