Sujoy Roy Chowdhury
Chapter 1: Arrival in the City of Joy
Alex stepped off the plane at Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose International Airport with a sense of excitement buzzing inside him. He had read countless travel blogs about Kolkata’s Durga Puja, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight that greeted him the moment he arrived. The terminal itself was decorated with banners showcasing the festival—bright reds, golds, and oranges, images of the goddess Durga in all her glory, and the words “Welcome to the City of Joy” beaming from every corner. Outside the airport, the humid October air wrapped around him like a heavy shawl, and the cacophony of honking cars, vendors calling out to passengers, and the rhythmic beat of distant drums filled his ears. It was chaotic, yet strangely alive. Alex, a traveler from Germany with a backpack and camera slung across his shoulders, knew instantly that he was stepping into something extraordinary.
His first true connection to Kolkata came during the flight itself. Sitting next to him was an elderly Bengali gentleman, Mr. Sen, who struck up a conversation the moment he noticed Alex reading a guidebook on Durga Puja. With twinkling eyes and the calm authority of age, Mr. Sen explained the basics of the festival—the five days of grandeur, the rituals, the pandals, and the immersion on the final day. “You must understand,” he said, his voice warm and proud, “Durga Puja is not just religion for us, it is the soul of Bengal. The entire city becomes a family.” By the end of the flight, Alex had been invited to visit Mr. Sen’s neighborhood pandal in North Kolkata, an invitation he accepted with genuine gratitude. He hadn’t expected such warmth from a stranger, and it already made him feel less like a tourist and more like a welcomed guest.
The ride from the airport to his hotel was nothing short of surreal. As the taxi drove through the city, Alex noticed massive bamboo structures being erected on street corners, artisans painting larger-than-life idols, and strings of fairy lights being strung across roads in preparation for the festivities. The air smelled of incense and fried snacks, the kind of fragrance that hinted at endless stories unfolding behind every stall and every lane. Young children in new clothes clutched their parents’ hands, pointing excitedly at the pandals still under construction. Traffic snarled at every turn, but nobody seemed to mind—the city appeared to be humming with anticipation. Alex leaned back in his seat, staring out of the window, and whispered to himself, “So this is the City of Joy.” He didn’t know it yet, but in the days to come, this city would not just show him a festival—it would show him a new way of belonging.
Chapter 2: First Glimpse of the Goddess
The next morning, Alex woke up to the sound of conch shells echoing faintly through the streets, mingling with the early bustle of Kolkata’s daily life. The city seemed to wake with a rhythm unlike anything he had ever experienced before—cars honking in chaotic harmony, vendors calling out their wares, and the steady throb of distant dhak drums rehearsing for the night’s rituals. True to his word, Mr. Sen had arranged for his granddaughter Ananya to guide Alex through his very first pandal visit. When she arrived at his hotel lobby, dressed in a simple white kurta with a red dupatta draped casually over her shoulders, Alex immediately sensed her warmth. She greeted him with a bright smile, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of curiosity and excitement. “Are you ready to see the goddess?” she asked, and before he could answer, she had already hailed a yellow taxi to take them into the heart of North Kolkata.
The ride was short but unforgettable. As they turned into narrower lanes, the city transformed. Buildings leaned close together like old storytellers whispering secrets, and every corner revealed something new—tea stalls buzzing with conversation, boys chasing footballs in alleys, women in crisp saris carrying baskets of flowers for worship. But when they finally arrived at the pandal, Alex was stunned into silence. The towering structure looked nothing like the bamboo skeletons he had seen the night before. Overnight, it had been transformed into a masterpiece. Designed like a Rajasthani palace, with carved arches and glowing lanterns, it felt less like a temporary pavilion and more like a grand monument carved out of history. Crowds streamed in through its gates, their faces lit with devotion, their voices alive with anticipation. Alex followed Ananya inside, his heartbeat quickening with each step, until at last, the goddess revealed herself to him.
There she was—Durga, the ten-armed mother, her eyes wide and commanding, her form radiant with golden light. She stood victorious, her trident piercing the chest of the demon Mahishasura, while her children—Lakshmi, Saraswati, Kartikeya, and Ganesha—stood beside her in serene balance. The artistry was breathtaking; the idol seemed almost alive. Alex felt a shiver run down his spine. It wasn’t just the craftsmanship that moved him—it was the collective faith that pulsed in the air, thousands of hearts beating as one in reverence. Around him, people folded their hands in prayer, whispered chants, and offered flowers at her feet. Ananya leaned close and whispered, “This is only the beginning. By the end of the festival, you will understand why we say Durga Puja is our heartbeat.” Alex could only nod, his throat tight with emotion. For the first time since arriving, he wasn’t just a traveler or an observer. He was part of something larger—something sacred, something unforgettable.
Chapter 3: The Streets Come Alive
By the evening of his second day, Alex discovered that Kolkata after sunset during Durga Puja was a different universe altogether. What he had seen in the morning—the calm devotion, the quiet awe inside the pandal—was only one side of the celebration. As night fell, the city exploded into a carnival of light and sound. Ananya had promised him that pandal-hopping was the heart of Puja, and now he understood why. They stepped into streets draped with glowing fairy lights, archways designed like royal gates, and banners welcoming visitors in both Bengali and English. The air buzzed with conversations, laughter, the scent of street food, and the echoing rhythm of dhak drums from every corner. Everywhere he looked, people moved in waves, their faces glowing in the kaleidoscope of colors. For Alex, who was used to quiet European festivals, this was overwhelming, but it was also intoxicating.
Each pandal they visited was a world unto itself. The first one resembled a medieval European cathedral, complete with stained-glass windows recreated in colored paper and cloth. Alex’s jaw dropped as Ananya explained how months of planning and thousands of hands worked together to build these temporary marvels. The second pandal transported him into an ancient South Indian temple, with intricate stone-like carvings, torches flickering, and classical music playing softly in the background. The third was the most surprising—it was shaped like a giant spaceship, with blue lights and futuristic designs. Inside, Durga’s idol glowed in silver and white, her expression calm yet commanding, as if she were the eternal force guiding humanity through time itself. Alex couldn’t believe that all of this was created just for a few days, only to be dismantled after the immersion. It felt almost impossible that so much artistry, devotion, and effort could be temporary.
By midnight, the crowds had only grown thicker, and Alex found himself moving shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, yet he felt no discomfort. Instead, he felt carried along by the city’s heartbeat. Street performers entertained children, photographers clicked endless pictures, and vendors sold everything from balloons to trinkets. At one point, Ananya handed him a clay cup of steaming hot cha (tea), and they stood together on the sidewalk, sipping and watching the tide of humanity flow past. “Do you see now?” she asked, her smile knowing. “Durga Puja is not just about the goddess—it’s about us, the people, the city, the art, and the joy of being together.” Alex looked around at the endless sea of faces, at the lights stretching into the horizon, at the music vibrating in his chest, and nodded slowly. He finally began to grasp what Mr. Sen had meant when he said that Durga Puja was the soul of Bengal. For the first time, Alex felt less like an outsider and more like a part of this living, breathing celebration.
Chapter 4: Drums and Devotion
The following morning, Alex woke to a sound that felt both ancient and alive—the rhythmic thunder of dhak drums. The beats were steady yet wild, filling the air with an energy that seemed to echo from the soul of the city. Curious, he followed Ananya through winding lanes until they reached a group of drummers gathered near a pandal entrance. Each man wore a white dhoti and a red uttariya draped across his shoulder, their drums slung from their necks. The sticks in their hands moved in perfect harmony, striking the taut animal-skin surface with an intensity that made Alex’s chest vibrate. It wasn’t just music; it was a call, a heartbeat, a pulse that tied the people of Kolkata to their goddess. Crowds had gathered around, swaying to the rhythm, clapping along, some even breaking into impromptu dances.
Among the drummers, Ananya introduced Alex to Raju Da, a middle-aged man with a weather-beaten face and kind eyes. Wiping sweat from his brow, Raju Da told Alex how his family had been playing the dhak for generations. “For us, this is not a performance—it’s worship,” he said, his voice hoarse but proud. He explained that the sound of the dhak awakens the goddess, that it is as much a prayer as the mantras chanted by priests. Listening intently, Alex realized that music here was not just art, but devotion given form. Raju Da laughed when Alex asked if he could try, but eventually handed him a pair of sticks. As Alex awkwardly attempted to strike the drum, the uneven beats made the crowd chuckle, yet they cheered him on warmly. He laughed too, a little embarrassed, but secretly thrilled to be part of the ritual, even if only for a fleeting moment.
The more Alex listened, the deeper he felt drawn into the meaning of the drums. The dhak didn’t follow the neat rhythms he was used to in Western music; instead, it carried rawness, like a storm restrained within human hands. When played in unison, the collective beats seemed to lift the atmosphere, making even the idols look more alive, as if Durga herself swayed to the rhythm. Standing among the drummers and the devotees, Alex closed his eyes and let the sound wash over him. It wasn’t just noise—it was prayer, celebration, and emotion all rolled into one. Ananya leaned closer and said softly, “Now you’re hearing the heartbeat of Bengal.” At that moment, Alex understood—Durga Puja was not about watching from a distance. It was about stepping into the rhythm of the people, losing oneself, and becoming part of something eternal.
Chapter 5: A Plate of Bhog
By midday, the festival streets were buzzing with a different kind of energy—the fragrance of food. As Alex and Ananya returned to Mr. Sen’s neighborhood pandal, he noticed long queues of people patiently waiting near a covered area at the side. Children clutched plates, elders chatted cheerfully, and volunteers in white kurtas moved swiftly with buckets of steaming food. “This is bhog,” Ananya explained with a smile. “Every pandal serves it during Puja. It’s prasadam—sacred food offered to the goddess and then shared with everyone.” Curious, Alex joined the line with her, the aroma of spices making his stomach growl. He had tasted Indian food before, but nothing like this. The anticipation itself was intoxicating, as if the food was not just meant to fill the stomach but to connect people in a shared ritual.
When their turn arrived, volunteers handed them banana leaves as plates and ladled generous portions of khichuri—golden, fragrant rice and lentils, thickened with ghee and spices. Alongside came labra, a mixed vegetable curry, tangy tomato chutney, crispy fried papad, and a sweet serving of payesh, a creamy rice pudding laced with cardamom. Alex sat cross-legged on the floor among dozens of others, the leaf warm in his hands. The first spoonful of khichuri melted in his mouth—rich yet simple, comforting yet divine. He looked around and noticed that everyone, whether rich or poor, young or old, ate together without distinction. It struck him as something profoundly beautiful. The act of sharing food, blessed by the goddess, made every person equal at that moment.
As he ate, he caught sight of Mr. Sen across the hall, laughing heartily with his friends, while Ananya teased him about eating too slowly. “This is more than food, Alex,” she said gently. “It’s our way of being one family, of sitting together with strangers who don’t feel like strangers anymore.” Alex nodded, savoring another bite of the payesh, its sweetness lingering on his tongue. For the first time since arriving in Kolkata, he felt truly at home. The crowd around him wasn’t just celebrating religion—it was celebrating community, generosity, and the simple joy of sharing a meal. When the volunteers came by to collect the empty leaves, Alex folded his hands instinctively in gratitude, not just to them, but to the city itself. The bhog had filled more than his stomach; it had nourished his soul.
Chapter 6: The Call of the Goddess
The following morning, Ananya took Alex back to the pandal for one of the most sacred rituals of the festival—pushpanjali. The air was still cool, and the sky held a pale golden light as the neighborhood gathered in front of the idol. The priest, draped in a simple white dhoti, chanted Sanskrit mantras in a voice that rose and fell like waves against the shore. Around him, devotees held flowers in their palms, eyes closed, lips moving in unison as they repeated the chant. Alex stood beside Ananya, holding a small bundle of marigold petals she had placed in his hands. The fragrance of incense and the soft glow of oil lamps filled the space with a sense of timeless reverence. Though he didn’t understand the words, he felt their rhythm, their weight, their sincerity. It wasn’t just sound—it was faith vibrating in the air.
As the mantras grew louder, the entire crowd bowed together, lowering their flowers at the feet of the goddess. Alex hesitated at first, unsure if he should join, but Ananya gently nudged him forward. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t know the words,” she whispered. “Just think of something you wish for, and let the goddess hear it.” Taking a deep breath, Alex closed his eyes. He thought of his family back in Germany, of the longing he sometimes felt for a place he had yet to find, and of the strange warmth he had already discovered in Kolkata. When he finally placed the flowers at Durga’s feet, he felt an unexpected calm settle inside him, as if he had whispered something secret to the universe and been heard. For a man who had never considered himself religious, the moment was quietly transformative.
When the ritual ended, the crowd dispersed slowly, some staying to light candles, others touching the feet of the idol before leaving. Alex lingered, his gaze fixed on the goddess’s face—the sharp eyes, the serene smile, the radiance of strength and compassion combined. He felt as if those eyes were looking directly at him, piercing through the noise of the world to something deeper. Ananya watched him silently, then said with a smile, “You’ve felt it, haven’t you? That’s why people say the goddess comes home to us. For these few days, she isn’t distant—she’s here, with us.” Alex nodded, unable to find words. He had arrived in Kolkata as an outsider, but in that moment, kneeling before Durga, he felt something shift within him. He wasn’t just observing a ritual anymore—he was part of it. The call of the goddess had reached him, and it was something he would carry long after he left this city.
Chapter 7: Food Adventures
As the festival days rolled on, Alex discovered that Durga Puja was as much about the stomach as it was about the soul. One evening, Ananya insisted that he couldn’t leave Kolkata without experiencing its legendary street food. She led him through a bustling stretch near the pandals where stalls lined both sides of the road, each one surrounded by eager crowds. The air was thick with the aroma of fried snacks, roasted spices, and tangy chutneys. Bright lamps illuminated steaming cauldrons and sizzling pans, vendors shouted to lure customers, and families huddled together with plates balanced in their hands. For Alex, who had grown up with the neat cafes of Europe, this chaotic open-air feast felt like a carnival of flavors waiting to be explored.
Their first stop was a small stall run by Imran, a jovial vendor with a wide grin and a knack for storytelling. “Welcome, foreign brother!” he called out as soon as he spotted Alex, handing him a hollow crisp puri filled with spicy tamarind water. “This is phuchka—eat it in one bite, or you’ll lose the magic.” Nervous but excited, Alex popped the entire phuchka into his mouth, only to feel a fiery explosion of flavors—tangy, spicy, and refreshing all at once. His eyes watered as the crowd laughed good-naturedly, but Imran clapped him on the back and said, “Well done! You’re one of us now.” Next came a kathi roll, juicy skewered meat wrapped in paratha and dripping with chutney, followed by egg devil chops, fish fry, and finally, syrupy rasgullas that melted into sweetness on his tongue. Each bite was a revelation, a taste of the city’s history and love for indulgence.
As they walked on, Alex realized that the food wasn’t just about filling hunger—it was about celebrating together. Families shared plates, friends challenged each other to handle spicier bites, and laughter spilled from every corner. He noticed how easily strangers became companions at these stalls, united by nothing more than their appetite and joy. With payesh still lingering on his tongue and the heat of chaat warming his lips, Alex looked at Ananya and said, half-joking but sincere, “If the goddess wanted to make sure no one ever forgets this festival, she chose the right way—through food.” Ananya laughed, agreeing wholeheartedly. For Alex, that evening of culinary adventures wasn’t just about flavors—it was about connection, a delicious reminder that festivals are as much about sharing meals as they are about rituals and prayers.
Chapter 8: The City That Doesn’t Sleep
By the time the fifth day of the festival arrived, Alex had already begun to adjust to Kolkata’s rhythm, but nothing prepared him for the sleepless nights of pandal-hopping that followed. That evening, Ananya and a group of her friends invited him to join their all-night journey through the city. As they set off just after sunset, the streets were already overflowing with life. Everywhere he looked, people poured in—families dressed in their finest clothes, groups of college students singing as they walked, couples holding hands and whispering in each other’s ears. The city had transformed into one endless procession of joy. Streetlights glowed like golden chains overhead, fairy lights wrapped around trees sparkled in every color, and the night air hummed with music and laughter. For Alex, it was impossible to believe that this many people could be out at once, yet instead of chaos, he felt a strange sense of harmony.
Their first stops were in South Kolkata, where pandals towered like monuments. One resembled a Mughal palace, complete with domes and arches, lit in soft hues of blue and silver. Another recreated a tribal village, its walls decorated with earthy patterns and clay lamps casting gentle shadows. Each pandal was crowded, but the people moved with patience, letting everyone have their moment before the goddess. Alex watched in awe as young volunteers guided traffic, children played without fear, and elders stood proudly, soaking in the atmosphere. Hours slipped away unnoticed as they moved from one pandal to another, each more extravagant than the last. Midnight came, then two, then three—but the city only grew louder, brighter, more alive. Even the smallest neighborhood lanes had their own lights and music, their own idols to celebrate.
At one point, as they paused for tea at a roadside stall, Alex looked around and realized what made this festival extraordinary. It wasn’t just the artistry of the pandals or the devotion of the prayers—it was the togetherness. Strangers laughed like old friends, young and old danced side by side, and the city itself seemed to forget its burdens for these few days. Ananya turned to him with a playful smile and asked, “Still awake, or do you want to rest?” Alex laughed, sipping the steaming cha from a clay cup, and replied, “How can I sleep when the whole city is dreaming with open eyes?” In that moment, he knew the truth: Kolkata during Durga Puja was not simply a place to visit—it was an experience to live, and it lived best in the hours when the city refused to close its eyes.
Chapter 9: The Last Goodbye
The morning of Dashami arrived with a bittersweet air, and Alex could sense that the festival was nearing its end. The city was still alive with energy, but beneath the laughter and music was a quiet undercurrent of farewell. Ananya explained that this day was special—it was when the goddess, having vanquished the demon, prepared to return to her heavenly abode. Women in bright red and white saris gathered at the pandals, carrying trays of vermilion, sweets, and betel leaves. The ritual of sindoor khela was about to begin. As drums beat in the background, the women first offered prayers to the goddess, smearing her forehead and feet with red vermilion, then turned toward each other with playful smiles. In moments, the air was filled with laughter as they smeared sindoor on one another’s faces, cheeks glowing crimson, eyes sparkling with tears. Alex stood mesmerized, realizing he was witnessing not just a ritual but an intimate exchange of love, strength, and sisterhood.
As the day stretched on, the mood shifted from joyous to solemn. In the afternoon, the idols began to be prepared for bisarjan, the grand immersion. Alex joined Mr. Sen, Ananya, and countless others as the idol of their neighborhood pandal was carefully lifted onto a truck, adorned with garlands and offerings. The streets became rivers of people as processions moved toward the banks of the Ganga. Drums thundered, conch shells blew, and chants of “Bolo Durga Ma ki… joy!” echoed into the evening sky. Alex walked with the crowd, swept along by its collective emotion. For the first time, he saw men and women cry openly, their voices trembling as they shouted, “Asche bochor abar hobe!”—a promise that the goddess would return again next year. Even though he didn’t share their lifelong faith, Alex felt tears prick his own eyes. He realized he was no longer just a foreign traveler; he was grieving with them, hoping with them, belonging with them.
At the riverbank, under a fiery orange sunset, the idol was lowered into the waters of the Ganga. The goddess, who had looked so fierce and alive only days before, now seemed fragile as she tilted into the waves, the colors of her form dissolving slowly into the current. The chants grew louder, as if to hold on to her presence for just a little longer, but soon she was gone, carried away by the river. Silence lingered for a moment before the drums resumed, louder than ever, as if reminding everyone that life must continue. Alex stood on the banks, his heart heavy but strangely uplifted, as Ananya whispered, “This is why we cry, but also why we smile. She leaves us now, but she always comes back.” Alex nodded, gazing at the river, knowing this farewell was not truly an ending—it was a promise of return, a cycle of faith and joy that he had now become part of forever.
Chapter 10: Carrying the Spirit Home
As Alex wheeled his suitcase through the bustling airport, the sights and sounds of Kolkata still seemed to echo around him. The hum of travelers, the chatter of excited families, and the rolling announcements over the speakers reminded him faintly of the streets he had wandered just days ago, alive with the rhythms of Durga Puja. He paused near a window, looking out at the planes lined up for departure, and instinctively pulled out his phone. The gallery was a kaleidoscope of memories: the vivid colors of the pandals, the intricate faces of the idols, the flickering diyas that seemed to dance with the prayers of the devotees. There were snapshots of food stalls, overflowing with steaming kachoris, mishti, and chaats; the messy joy of tasting sweets that melted on the tongue; and candid moments of laughter with the friends he had made along the way. Each image seemed to carry a whisper of the city’s energy, a pulse that Alex realized had seeped into him, leaving traces on his heart that no journey could erase. As he scrolled through the photos, the lessons of his travels crystallized in his mind, reminding him that what he had witnessed was more than a festival—it was a living, breathing expression of devotion, creativity, and community.
The words of Mr. Sen, the kind man who had welcomed him so warmly into his home, returned to him with fresh clarity: “Durga Puja is not just worship, it’s the soul of Bengal.” At first, Alex had nodded, seeing the festival as a grand celebration, full of colors, noise, and rituals. But now, with time to reflect, he understood the depth behind those words. Durga Puja was a reflection of life itself—the balance of joy and sorrow, the strength found in togetherness, and the reverence for stories and traditions that connected generations. Each pandal had been a canvas of history and imagination, each idol a symbol of hope and resilience, and each gathering of friends, strangers, and families a reminder of the warmth of shared humanity. Alex realized that this was what Mr. Sen had meant: the festival was not just observed, it was absorbed, lived, and carried within the hearts of those who took part. And now, in the quiet hum of the airport, Alex felt that living spirit coursing through him, as tangible and enduring as the photographs he clutched.
As the boarding call echoed through the terminal, signaling that his journey home was imminent, Alex felt a bittersweet pang. He was leaving Kolkata, its streets, its aromas, and its vibrant chaos behind, but he also carried it with him in a way that transcended physical presence. The spirit of the festival, the warmth of the people, and the lessons of devotion, joy, and resilience were now part of him. He tucked his phone away, a smile spreading across his face, knowing that the city’s energy would accompany him through his everyday life, in small moments of reflection or laughter shared with friends and family far from Bengal. Kolkata had left its mark on him, and Alex understood that home was not just a place, but a feeling—and he was taking a piece of this extraordinary city, this extraordinary festival, back with him forever. The airport around him faded slightly as he stepped onto the plane, his heart full, carrying the spirit of Durga Puja, and the soul of Bengal, into a new chapter of his life.
End
