I want to apologize for the long periods of delay between posts. I was swamped with yearlies and recurring assessments, losing writing inspiration at the rate of light years (1 parsec, anyone?). I will attempt to post more regularly henceforth and try my best to minimize the unnecessary wait caused.
The last time I wrote a post on Durga Puja was three years ago. Or something. All I know is time flew by, getting sucked into a wormhole, and I found myself, once again this year, celebrating the same Puja again.
Very nostalgic indeed.
However, this time, there was a…slight change of environment.
In the glorious form of pigs, cows, hot, humid Calcutta and a village tucked away in the outskirts of a bustling city, welcome to the eighty members of my extended family.
It started when we walked through the metal gates, lugging along about 5 suitcases and an empty one because going to India means splurging all the non-existent finances, I have to support me☹.
Seeing my family after two long years, with travel being crippled first by Covid and then postponed because of our international move brought both feelings of joy and apprehension. Some distant relatives were those whom I hadn’t seen for 12 years, my only memories of them confined to the recesses of a toddler’s mind. The inner introvert was surfacing, yet I pushed down my feelings of absolute terror at the thought of socialising and dove headfirst into a world long forgotten, my first celebration experiences in our ancestral home.
AND WHAT IS IT WITH COUSINS SHOOTING UP IN HEIGHT EVERY TIME YOU SEE THEM?
Could’ve donated some of those beanstalk genes while you were at it.
Throughout the days ensued a sleep schedule that malfunctioned regularly, and a body clock that was incredibly messed up due to a large, unavoidable time difference which hovered over my head, sealing the threat of utter torture when I returned home.
God, I’m yawning while writing this due to that painful recollection.
That could also be because yearlies are over, and I’ve become as lazy as a sloth.
Given the fact that each puja, spanning over a whopping five days took up the entire day, I had no time to sit still, thrown into the jumble of preparation and attempts to wake up on time. See, one puja would be at 2 am, then 8 am, then everyone would stay up until 12 am or later.
Why? To be plagued by the haunted nightmares of ghost stories, of course. Some of those genuinely chilled my blood, truth ringing in the origin of what most would consider to be rumours. We’ve had a post debating the reality of aliens, but ghosts have never been explored…
I grew used to waking up every day, eating food that had about a whole bucket of chilli in it(the spice tolerance shooting up), arguing with my cousins, sweating torrents and suffering in the oppressive heat, because of the temperature difference of about 20 degrees between home and India, and lastly, succumbing to the wiles of the wonderful, ever so lovely, flu.
I wouldn’t have left though. Five days of joy, five days, a break away from all the problems that come with going through routine in a bustling city, five days of utter simplicity and acceptance, a sharp contrast to the life I was so used to.
On the last day, known by many names, Dashami or Dussehra being the most common, Maa Durga left us, ascending once more to heaven.
Visarjan, or Bisarjana(বিসর্জন)is the leaving of the goddess as she returns to her home in the heavens, after nine days of gracing the Earth and blessing the human race with her presence. According to Hindu mythology, it is believed that Maa Durga visits Earth during Navratri and the act of immersion symbolizes her departure from Earth back to her divine realm. This end also symbolises the day she killed Mahishasura, the demon that pursued his evil ways by the use of shape-shifting. The god, Agni prophesised that he could only be killed by a woman, and after his defeat, on Durga’s pedestal, Mahishasura lies, clutched in one of her fearsome ten hands as the reminder of the prevalence of good over evil.
On the same day, as an epic from the Ramayana, lies a story of the defeat of the asura(demon) Ravana by the hero, saviour and god, Prince Ram. Lord Ram, with the help of his brother Lakshman and the monkey army led by Hanuman, fought against Ravan’s forces. After a fierce battle, Lord Ram emerged victorious on the 10th day, which is celebrated as Dussehra. Every year, this victory is marked by the burning of Ravan’s effigy.
As the goddess was immersed and we watched her fall into the water, lowered by the gentle hands of loving devotees and relatives, tears fell too, running down the faces of many as a time of celebration drew to a close, a harsh reminder of the time we spend far apart from our loved ones. Soon, we all knew, we would be sucked back into the whirlwind of school, work and deadlines, reabsorbed into the maelstrom of life.
From the perspective of someone who lives overseas, I wouldn’t find it that devastating. I didn’t cry or understand the significance of many actions conducted during the puja process, didn’t know the required materials or the mantras to recite. It was foreign, it was strange, it was something I wouldn’t have willingly agreed to at any point in my life, if asked.
But for the period of those five days, I felt connected. I felt like I belonged to a larger family, like I had a culture and a background I could be proud of, and learnt so, so much about the beautiful histories and rituals that make up the winding tapestry of the festivals of India.
If you’d ask me now, instead of two months ago?
I would want to visit again, without hesitation.
For now, I could hope, I thought, as I prayed, closing my eyes to the falling rays of the setting sun as it cast its rays across the water, reflecting off the dissolving effigy and reminding us that there would always be a next year to look forward to, from near, or from miles afar.
Telling me to remember.
Signing off…