As I bid adieu to October with another ‘ashche bochor abar hobe’, a fleeting realization of growing up cripples me. I absolutely love October. Do you think a month can ever feel like a hug you wait for the entire year? As if you have been tired and drenched to wake up to a morning that plays a soft breeze against your skin? As if trying to play a flute while welcoming you to groove at its tune?
Granted, I am an October baby but that is a secondary reason for my undying love.
The primary stems from a few specific memories from when I was probably five or six years old. October always meant awaiting the arrival of Maa: Maa Durga. I am not a religious person but Durga Pujo to a Bengali is nothing about pure religion. It is about belief; a sheer belief that no matter how your year has been, there will always be four days of Pujo when you are allowed to forget the entire world and simply be happy. To experience pure joy. It is about the faith that no matter how bleak the world might seem, how alone you may feel, you will always have Pujo.
Goddess Durga is expected at her maternal home, the Earth, every year from her husband’s, Lord Shiva at Kailash. Being a Bengali, I have grown up waking up to the sounds of ‘Agomini’ by Birendra Krishna Bhadra being played loudly on Mahalaya when she commences her journey down. As we geared up for her arrival in the subsequent five days, with schools declaring holidays, it seemed that the entire world around me was decorating itself up to welcome her.
My dad would book us tickets to go to our hometown and I remember having to wake up at 4 AM to get to a train at 5 AM. I hated that. But everything seemed to fall into place as soon as we would board the train and look out of the window.
October autumn has an aura about itself, you see. In India, you do not see October bringing down tree leaves but you can smell the aura of Pujo in its very essence. You can see the fields of the countryside blooming with ‘kashful’ as the train speeds through. You can find streets loaded with ‘sheuli’ flowers every morning. Those tiny flowers in white and orange seem to await the sounds of ‘dhak’ with as much vigor as every Bengali. It seemed that Mother Nature too was getting ready to welcome the Goddess, just as much as we humans did.
If love or hope or joy could be anything tangible, it would be October with its morning breeze, the fields of kashful, the fallen sheuli, the smell of dhunuchi and the sounds of dhak.
Growing up, Pujo seems to have changed in more ways than I can explain. There was a day when we couldn’t imagine schools being open during Pujo. Now, we must take a leave from the office for the same. You have to book a flight to go back ‘home’, although you have no clue where home really is. None of your friends live in the same city anymore. Your family is scattered and Pujo is no longer a good enough excuse for everyone to come together.
Often, I get irritated at people assuming that I am from Kolkata just because I am a Bengali. And I have to painfully explain to them the logic and history behind how one can be a Bengali and not call Kolkata their home. This also includes having to explain the fact that there are cities other than Kolkata that celebrate Pujo with as much pomp and show.
With the introduction of social media and the blessings of Mark, the world is not unaware of Durga Pujo celebrations and everything around it. So, I am not going to bore you blabbering about the beauty of meeting everyone on Pujo, street food, pandal hopping, decorations, dhunuchi naach and new attires.
Instead, I might as well skip to the tenth day, the last day when we say goodbye to Maa. To be fair, Bengalis never say goodbye to the Goddess because goodbye means not having a hope of meeting again. Instead, with tears hidden by smiles, we say, ‘ashche bochor abar hobe’ which means, it’ll happen again next year. We tell her, ‘maa tumi abar esho’ which means, ‘Mother, please come again.’ All our songs and celebrations on this day are wrapped with the idea of welcoming her the next year instead of bidding goodbye.
But the ritual I love the most is the ‘shidoor khela’ or playing with vermilion, a revered essential for a married woman in Hinduism. Vermilion, as a symbol of marriage is considered holy for any married Hindu woman as it is said to be for the well-being of her husband. Despite my personal beliefs or opinions about vermilion being able to protect a human against all odds, I thoroughly love ‘shidoor khela’. That is one day I do not mind someone putting vermilion on my face.
But of course, like everything else in religion, this custom too has its restrictions. You are not allowed to apply vermilion on a widow. Hence, to me, this custom comes with a pinch of salt as my mother is no longer allowed to take part in this ritual. I had to bear the pain of seeing her sitting in a corner with a few others while I had no restrictions. As long as you are married or yet to be, there is a free pass to touch vermilion.
Nonetheless, on the tenth day, after the Pushpanjali, all married women come together to see the Goddess off to her in-laws’ house. This ritual starts with what we call, ‘maa ke boron kora’ or the Devi Boron custom. At the outset, a plate of water is kept below the idol on which women (married or single) would look at the reflection of the Goddess and seek her blessing. This is followed by married women bringing a plate with betel leaves, vermilion, a candle of a diya, and sweets. They touch the betel leaf to the Goddess’ face in the belief that it will wipe away the tears of her leaving her maternal house. The leaf is also touched to her bangles, or more specifically, the ‘shakha-pola’, a mark of her husband’s well-being. Next, they would feed her sweets or curd and put vermilion on her forehead and face. This particular ritual is again, different in different communities of Bengali. For instance, the Sylheti community of Assam does not have the custom with the betel leaf. They also use popped rice and curd along with sweets to feed the Goddess.
Once a woman finishes the ritual for the Goddess, they put vermilion on each other’s face as a mark of sisterhood. This is the part I love the most. The absolute vibrancy and purity of this tradition is a delight to look at. No matter which community or caste or creed or religion you are from, whether you are married or not, you forget everything for those few moments and wish for the well-being of your sister. You put the sacred vermilion on each other’s face in front of the Goddess, with all smiles and a heart full of joy, dancing to the tunes of dhak as the dhaki plays his heart out. The sheer joy on their face, with innumerable traces of fingers in red, and the grace in their steps as they run around to apply ‘shidoor’ on each other, hugging each other with all the good wishes they can master is a positive energy you do not witness every day.
I think this is the reason I adore Durga Pujo. To me, it is not at all about Hinduism or religion. It is the strength of sisterhood. It is the admiration of the strength of women and celebrating womanhood. It is celebrating the power of Shakti, the feminine energy, the one woman who defeated the Asura who scared every Gods out there in a world shackled with patriarchy. Everything about Pujo pays respect to women from all aspects of life. For instance, a potter cannot start the creation of the idol unless they beg for clay from a red-light area and is donated the same by a prostitute. Isn’t that wonderful? Even the ostracized ones are treated with dignity and respect during Durga Pujo, making them one of the most integral aspects of the festival. A festival that is inclusive of everyone in the community. To be more specific, a festival that teaches the meaning of the word, ‘community’. For me, Pujo is all about celebrating life and love with the people around us.
And with this, I take my leave too, with hope of ‘ashche bochor, abar hobe’.
chroniclesofteesta 
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