Durga Pujo

The air shimmers,


not with incense alone,


but with memory,


with the thick, sweet smoke


of Dhunuchi swirling,


spirits dancing untamed.

The Dhaak begins,


a heartbeat older than time,


wooden mallets echoing,

Conch shells roar,


tongues trill with Ulloo Dhoni,


a chorus both earthly and divine.


summoning every cell

to rise,


to remember.

Morning quiet returns—


pushpanjali whispered,


petals pressed into palms,


eyes closed,


a hush of surrender,

a thousand lips moving as one.

A new saree rustling,


the sheen of silk,


the click of cameras,


laughter spilling in front of


Maa Dugga’s gaze—


her smile reflected


in every frame.

And always,


the food.


Plates heavy with love,


with mustard, spice,


sweet and salt,


the taste of home,


the taste of reunion.

On the last day,


vermillion smears become


bonds of red; 


Shidoor Khela,


a riot of touch,


of blessings painted


on cheek and brow,


as if to say:


carry her strength with you


till she returns.

Durga Pujo
not a festival,


but a rhythm.

The dhaak slows.


The smoke thins.


The idol departs.


But the rhythm remains,


a fire in the chest,


a perfume in the air,


a promise whispered:


‘Ashche bochor abaar hobe’

(She will return)