Rhea Mukherjee
Part 1 – Shashthi: The First Glimpse
The city had begun to wear its annual costume, and Anirban felt as though he had walked into a memory painted brighter than life itself. College Street was strung with banners, fairy lights hung like constellations caught in the wires, and the air smelled of shiuli blossoms crushed underfoot, mixing with the sharp scent of incense and fried snacks. He hadn’t been here for Durga Puja in three years, not since he had taken that job in Bangalore and left behind everything familiar—his friends, his family, and Ishita. The cab he took from Sealdah station inched forward as crowds pressed against every lane, puja pandals rising like temporary palaces, each competing with the other in grandeur. His phone buzzed with messages from cousins asking where he was, whether he’d be late for the Shashthi opening at their Bonedi Bari, but he ignored them. He wasn’t ready to explain why his chest was tight with something more than nostalgia, why his eyes searched unconsciously for a face he had rehearsed forgetting.
When he finally stepped into the courtyard of the ancestral house, its arches lit with warm bulbs, dhaak beats trembling the red brick walls, the sensation was overwhelming. Women in crisp saris balanced trays of fruits and flowers, men argued about organizing the evening aarti, and children darted past his knees holding toy trumpets that squealed over the rhythm. The goddess had arrived—Durga, resplendent in gold, eyes fierce yet tender, her lion crouching proudly at her feet. For Anirban, that vision was always tied to another: the first time he and Ishita had been asked to place flowers together during Pushpanjali, years ago, her tiny fingers brushing his as they held hibiscus petals. He shook the thought away. He was older now, supposedly wiser, carrying the weariness of late nights in office cubicles and flights that blurred cities into identical silhouettes. Yet the moment he saw her across the courtyard, none of that armor mattered.
Ishita stood near the idol, adjusting a garland, her hair falling loose around her face in a way that made her look both older and impossibly young at the same time. She wore a simple white cotton sari with a pale red border, no jewelry except a pair of small gold earrings he remembered had been her mother’s. Around her, friends and cousins chatted, laughed, snapped pictures, but she seemed slightly apart, absorbed in making sure the flowers sat right, the incense smoke curled properly. And then she turned, eyes sweeping across the crowd, and stilled when they found his. For a breath the entire courtyard seemed to hush. The dhaak beat on, bells clanged, yet he heard only the memory of her voice, three years distant, the last call they had shared before he left, when words had failed them both and silence had been the only reply.
She smiled faintly now, a careful smile, one that asked questions without demanding answers. He walked toward her, feeling the ground uncertain under his feet, though he knew every inch of this courtyard since childhood. “Back at last,” she said softly when he reached her. “Or did Bangalore finally throw you out?” He laughed, awkward, relieved she hadn’t turned away. “Work gave me a break. Thought I’d spend it with old gods and older friends.” Her eyes held his a second longer, then slipped away to the idol. “The goddess doesn’t wait for anyone,” she murmured.
They stood side by side as priests began chanting. Families gathered closer, the air thick with sandalwood smoke and anticipation. Anirban found himself remembering small details—the way Ishita’s hair used to smell faintly of coconut oil when they studied together in school, the way she would tie threads of red cloth around the balcony railing on Shashthi mornings for luck, the way she had once confessed her dream of becoming an art historian while they watched the immersion at the river. So many fragments, each unfinished. He wanted to speak, to ask her about the years that had stretched between them, but the words tangled in his throat. Instead he watched her fold her hands, eyes closing, lips moving silently with the prayer. The orange flame from the lamp touched her face, painting her with light.
When the first aarti concluded, Ishita turned to him again. “You look tired,” she said. “City life not kind?” He smiled. “Bangalore has its charms. But nothing smells like Kolkata during Pujo.” She tilted her head. “Still the poet.” “Still the critic,” he shot back. Their laughter mingled for the first time in years, and something loosened inside him.
The evening wore on—drums beating faster, guests streaming in, food stalls opening near the gate. They moved together through the bustle, cousins pulling them into group photos, aunties fussing over whether Anirban had eaten, uncles discussing politics too loudly. And through it all, he and Ishita kept orbiting each other, cautious but drawn, like two planets circling the same sun. When she passed him a plate of luchi and alur dom, their fingers brushed again, and the air between them thickened with memory.
Later, standing near the thakur dalan as children played with sparklers, Anirban finally found courage enough to ask, “Do you remember our last Shashthi together?” Ishita’s smile flickered. “I remember you promised to meet me at Sandhi Puja. And then you left before Navami.” “I had to catch my flight,” he said, though the excuse felt brittle. “I thought you’d understand.” “Maybe I did,” she replied, eyes steady. “But I also understood you didn’t say goodbye.”
The words settled heavy, but the goddess looked down on them with that eternal calm, and something told him this was only the beginning. For the first time in years, as dhaak beats echoed into the night, Anirban felt he had come home not just to the city, not just to the festival, but to the place where unfinished sentences waited to be spoken again.
Part 2 – Saptami: The Crowd and the Silence
By dawn the city had already begun to hum, and Saptami unfurled like a drumbeat rolling across every street. The air was sharp with the scent of fresh-cut banana leaves brought for the rituals, mingling with camphor smoke rising in pale whorls above the Bonedi Bari courtyard. Anirban woke to the noise of his cousins banging on his door, pulling him into the chaos of arrangements. There were flowers to string, fruits to cut, and last-minute decorations to hang, and yet as he tied marigolds on the railing his eyes kept wandering across the courtyard, searching for Ishita. She was already there, directing younger cousins, her sari a deep green edged with gold, her hair neatly braided, her voice calm but firm as she scolded a boy for eating the sweets before they were offered to the goddess. Every now and then she caught his glance, held it briefly, then looked away, as if unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing she noticed.
The priests chanted mantras in steady waves as the goddess was bathed and adorned with fresh clothes. People pressed forward to catch a glimpse, their voices hushed with reverence. Children whispered and giggled until silenced by stern looks. The first offering of water lilies lay at Durga’s feet, gleaming with dew like pearls. Anirban stood near the back, the press of the crowd tight around him, but he felt Ishita’s presence more sharply than the elbows nudging into his ribs. When the dhaak drummers began their rhythm, she turned slightly, and in that moment her eyes found his again, steady as a question.
Later, as families dispersed to eat, they slipped into the shaded corridor along the side of the house. It was cooler here, away from the incense smoke, the air filled instead with the faint smell of damp earth and the rustle of pigeons nesting on the rafters. For a while neither spoke. The silence was not unfriendly, but thick with what had been unsaid for years. Anirban leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching Ishita run her fingers along the carved wood of the old balustrade as though drawing strength from it.
“You disappeared yesterday after aarti,” he said finally. She didn’t look at him. “Too many people asking questions. Where I’m working, why I’m not married yet, the usual.” Her voice carried both weariness and defiance. He wanted to ask more, but instead said, “And what did you tell them?” She smiled faintly, still looking away. “That I’m busy with life. That should be enough.”
The silence stretched again, broken by the distant sound of children playing tag in the courtyard. He searched her face, wondering if he had any right to press further. “Do you ever think about…” He trailed off. “About what?” she asked, finally turning to face him. Her eyes were clear, direct. He swallowed. “About that evening. Before I left.”
She studied him for a long moment, and he felt the weight of her gaze like a judgement. “I thought about it,” she said at last. “But then time passed. And thoughts turned into habits. And habits into silence.” The words struck him like cold water. He had rehearsed apologies, imagined conversations, but hearing her say it so plainly stripped away the illusions he had carried.
Before he could reply, a group of cousins came running down the corridor, dragging them both back into the living whirl of Saptami. There were snacks to be distributed, songs to be sung, and plans for the evening pandal-hopping to be finalized. Anirban and Ishita were swept along with the tide, their private moment dissolved into the crowd’s noisy demands.
By nightfall the city was a blaze of light. Streets overflowed with people, the air thick with chatter, dhaak, and the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby stall selling phuchka or ghugni. Anirban found himself walking beside Ishita again as their group moved from one pandal to another, each more extravagant than the last—one designed like a temple of mirrors, another like a giant ship, another glowing with lanterns shaped like lotuses. The crowd jostled them, pushing them close, then pulling them apart, until it felt like some invisible rhythm was testing how far they could drift before returning to each other.
At one pandal shaped like a glass palace, the line slowed to a crawl. Children pressed their noses against the shimmering panels, couples whispered promises under the neon glow, and the two of them stood side by side in uneasy silence. “Ishita,” he said softly, the noise of the crowd muffling his words. “I should have said goodbye properly.” She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “And what difference would that have made? You still would have left.” He exhaled. “Maybe. But I would have left less unfinished.”
The line moved forward, dragging them into the pandal where chandeliers sparkled above and the goddess stood radiant in her glass chamber. For a moment they both looked at the idol together, and something unspoken passed between them—an acknowledgment that their silence was as fragile as the glass around them, beautiful but easily shattered.
On their way back through the crowded streets, a sudden drizzle began, cool drops falling on their faces, scattering the crowd into laughter and squeals. Ishita pulled her sari over her head, Anirban offered to hold it, but she shook her head, smiling despite herself. “Still the hero,” she teased. He grinned. “Still the stubborn one.” Their laughter rose above the rain, blending with the festival’s music.
That night, when he lay awake on his thin mattress under the slow ceiling fan, Anirban thought of her words—time, habits, silence—and wondered if this Puja could undo them. Outside, dhaak beats echoed faintly into the night, a promise that the days ahead would demand answers neither of them could avoid much longer.
Part 3 – Ashtami Morning: Pushpanjali
Morning sunlight slanted through the arches of the Bonedi Bari, lighting up the idol in a golden glow, the goddess’s eyes fierce yet full of something almost maternal. Ashtami had always carried a special gravity, a sense of solemnity mixed with joy, and Anirban felt it deep in his chest as he joined the line forming for Pushpanjali. The courtyard was a sea of white saris with red borders, men in crisp dhotis, the air heavy with incense, conch shells blaring at intervals that seemed to split the very air. He remembered childhood mornings when his mother dragged him here half asleep, his hands barely able to fold properly, while Ishita, two years younger, would giggle at his yawns, her tiny voice repeating the Sanskrit verses with far more confidence than his own. Now, as he stood barefoot on the cool stone floor, flower petals cupped in his palms, the sound of chanting weaving around him like a net, those memories returned with an intensity that left him breathless.
Ishita was three places ahead of him in the line, her profile sharp against the smoky backdrop, lips moving in rhythm with the priest’s voice. Her hair had loosened from the braid, strands curling along her neck, catching the sunlight in fine glimmers. She wore a white sari with a bold red border, traditional, simple, but the kind of simplicity that drew all eyes. The women around her seemed to melt into the crowd, but she stood out, not with extravagance but with the quiet dignity of someone who belonged wholly to the moment. Anirban watched her shoulders rise and fall with each breath, and for a second the petals in his hand felt like they weighed a hundred stones.
The priest’s voice rose: “Om Jayanti Mangala Kali…” The crowd responded in unison, a wave of sound that seemed to lift the roof beams. Ishita bent to gather the petals in her hands, and the line shifted. Before Anirban could think, he was beside her, their arms brushing, their eyes meeting briefly over cupped flowers. She did not smile, but she did not move away either. The priest signaled, and together they raised their hands to their foreheads, murmuring the prayers, letting the petals fall at the goddess’s feet. Their fingers brushed as they released the flowers, and for a heartbeat it felt like time stopped, the crowd dissolving, the dhaak beats silenced, the only sound the sharp thrum of his own pulse.
When the mantra ended, they stepped back with the others, palms still folded. Ishita’s voice was low but steady. “Some things never change.” He looked at her, unsure if she meant the ritual or the way his hand had trembled beside hers. “Some things shouldn’t,” he said quietly. She tilted her head, unreadable, and slipped into the crowd.
The day unfolded in a blur of devotion and festivity. Elders sat in clusters, discussing the precision of the priest’s chanting, children ran through the corridors, sweets disappeared faster than they could be served. Anirban drifted through it all, his attention caught again and again by Ishita—her laughter as she helped a little girl tie her sari, her concentration as she adjusted a slipping garland, the way she kept avoiding his gaze when she knew he was watching. Each moment added a thread to the web pulling him back to her, and he wondered how he had ever thought distance could sever it.
By late afternoon, as the heat mellowed, families prepared for Kumari Puja, and the courtyard grew quieter. Anirban found Ishita standing near the side doorway, watching the preparations with a pensive look. He hesitated, then joined her. “Do you ever feel like this house breathes more during Pujo?” he asked. She glanced at him. “It’s the only time it remembers what it’s supposed to be.” “And what about us?” The question slipped out before he could stop it. She stiffened slightly, eyes fixed ahead. “We are not the house, Anirban. We don’t get rebuilt every year.”
He felt the words land heavy, yet he could not retreat. “But maybe we can choose not to crumble.” She turned to him then, eyes sharp with something between anger and sorrow. “You talk as if you never left. As if you didn’t let silence do the crumbling for us.” He wanted to argue, to explain, but before he could, a cousin called Ishita’s name, dragging her back into the whirl of duty. She left with quick steps, leaving him staring at the dust motes swirling in the sunlight.
Evening came with renewed energy. Drummers beat faster, lamps blazed, the courtyard filled again for the grand aarti. Flames danced in the priests’ hands, smoke curled thick, and voices rose in chant. Ishita moved gracefully among the women, her sari now touched with the crimson glow of firelight. Anirban stood on the other side, the two of them separated by bodies and smoke, yet aware of each other with every breath. When the conch blew and bells rang in crescendo, he closed his eyes, and the image that came unbidden was not of the goddess but of her—eyes closed, lips moving, fingers brushing his as flowers fell at divine feet.
Ashtami ended with a sky full of stars, but Anirban carried only one thought as he lay awake that night: silence had lived between them too long, and if he did not speak soon, this Puja would leave him with yet another unfinished ending.
Part 4 – Ashtami Evening: Dhunuchi Smoke
By the time evening settled over the Bonedi Bari, the courtyard had transformed into a theatre of fire and rhythm. Lamps blazed in every corner, throwing long shadows against the old brick walls, while the dhaak thundered with a force that made the ground vibrate. The air was heavy with incense, the smoke curling upward in lazy spirals, and in the midst of it the dhunuchi dancers were preparing—men and women alike gripping clay incense burners, the glowing embers inside sending out thick plumes that painted the night white. For Anirban, this had always been the heartbeat of Ashtami, the moment when devotion became dance, when the air itself seemed to sway. But tonight his eyes sought only one figure, and when Ishita stepped forward to join the circle, he felt his chest tighten with a strange mix of pride and longing.
She moved with practiced grace, her sari tied securely at the waist, one hand holding the dhunuchi, the other balancing her steps as the drums rose in intensity. The smoke curled around her, softening her outline, until she looked like a figure drawn in fire and mist. The crowd clapped, cheering, the children squealing with delight, but for Anirban it was a private vision. Every sway of her body, every tilt of her head, carried the rhythm of memory—the girl who had once dared him to join the dance years ago, laughing when he stumbled, pulling him back into step until they had both moved as though the dhaak commanded their hearts. Tonight he could not remain an onlooker. Almost without realizing, he stepped forward, someone thrust a dhunuchi into his hand, and the heat of the embers seared his palm as if demanding courage.
He began clumsily, his feet out of sync, the smoke stinging his eyes, but Ishita glanced at him and the faintest smile tugged her lips. That small grace was enough. He adjusted, matched her rhythm, and soon the two of them were circling the courtyard, their paths weaving dangerously close, their smoke merging until it was impossible to tell whose trail belonged to whom. The crowd cheered louder, thrilled at the spectacle of the long-lost friends dancing again, though few knew the depth of the story between them.
As the dhaak reached its crescendo, Ishita spun lightly, the embers glowing bright in her dhunuchi, her face flushed with heat and firelight. Their eyes locked, and for a moment it was as if the goddess herself had orchestrated this dance to force them together. He felt the weight of years crumble in the rhythm of the drum, the silence breaking with every beat. When the music finally ended, the dancers bowed, placing the dhunuchis on the ground, and the courtyard erupted in applause. Anirban and Ishita stood breathless, faces shining with sweat and smoke, their gazes still tangled long after the embers had dimmed.
Later, when the crowd thinned and families dispersed to dinner, Anirban found her near the side veranda, fanning herself with a folded paper fan. He approached cautiously, the air still tinged with burnt camphor. “You still dance like the dhaak belongs to you,” he said, his voice quiet. She didn’t look at him immediately. “And you still follow like you’re afraid to lead.” Her words carried a playful sting, but there was softness beneath them. “Maybe I was waiting for you to lead me,” he admitted. That made her glance up, her eyes catching his in the dim light. For a heartbeat the distance between them seemed paper-thin, but then she folded the fan sharply and stepped back.
“You left once,” she said evenly. “And silence followed you. Don’t think a few steps in smoke can erase that.” He wanted to argue, to explain the letters unsent, the calls rehearsed and abandoned, the nights he thought of her across the distance of cities. But words felt weak compared to the look in her eyes—steady, wounded, cautious. “Ishita,” he began, but she raised a hand. “Not now. The goddess doesn’t need our quarrels mixed with her fire.” And with that she walked away, leaving him standing under the dim veranda lamp, the paper fan still swaying in the air as though waving a farewell he had never wanted.
Dinner passed in a blur of laughter, plates of khichuri and labra and payesh, the family’s chatter wrapping around him like a net he couldn’t escape. Yet his gaze kept drifting to where she sat with her cousins, her laughter rising and falling like a tide he could not reach. He felt the ache of proximity—the cruel closeness of being near enough to hear her voice, to see her smile, but far enough to feel her slipping through his fingers again.
As the night deepened, and the final conch blew to mark the end of Ashtami, Anirban walked alone into the courtyard. The lamps had burned low, the smoke still clung to the air, and the idol loomed above, calm and eternal. He folded his hands, not in ritual but in plea, and whispered silently: give me another chance to speak, to mend, to finish what was left undone. Above him, the goddess’s painted eyes seemed to hold a secret smile, as though she knew that prayers born from longing always found their answer, if not tonight then in the days that followed.
Part 5 – Sandhi Puja: The Pause Between Worlds
The air of Ashtami bled into Navami with a silence that trembled under the surface of sound. Sandhi Puja—the cusp between two tides—had always carried an otherworldly weight. At the Bonedi Bari the courtyard glowed brighter than ever, every lamp lit, every wick fed with oil until the flame seemed alive, shadows dancing like restless spirits. The dhaak slowed to a solemn rhythm, heavy and deliberate, echoing the breathless anticipation of the moment when one day ended and another began. Anirban stood among the gathering crowd, but his mind was not with the priests or the rituals. It was with Ishita, who moved through the throng carrying a brass plate of lamps, her face lit gold, her sari brushing against the floor like a whispered song.
The legend said this was the most powerful of all hours, when Ashtami’s fierce energy met Navami’s resolve, when Durga stood at her fiercest. And perhaps it was true, for the courtyard felt charged, every sound amplified, every silence unbearable. Ishita placed the lamps near the idol, her hands steady despite the tremor of firelight. When she turned, her eyes met Anirban’s across the courtyard, and something in her gaze told him she remembered too—that night three years ago, the promise left unfinished, the words he had swallowed before boarding his train. Tonight, he could not let silence win again.
As the conch shells blew, long and mournful, Anirban edged his way through the crowd until he was beside her. The priests were chanting, the crowd was bowing, but for him the world had narrowed to this one moment. “Ishita,” he said softly, but firmly enough to be heard over the chant. She glanced at him, her face unreadable, her palms still folded. “You shouldn’t talk now,” she murmured. “The goddess listens.” He took a breath, the weight of years pressing at his throat. “Then let her hear this too. I left without saying it, but it has haunted me every day. I thought silence would be safer, easier. It wasn’t. It was worse than any goodbye.”
Her eyes flickered, the light catching in them like water under flame. “And what is it you want to say now?” she whispered. The chanting rose, bells clanged, and the moment of Sandhi Puja burned around them like the edge of a sword. “That leaving you was harder than leaving Kolkata,” he said, the words rushing out, trembling but true. “That every dhaak beat in another city reminded me of what I had walked away from. That nothing I built there felt complete because you weren’t there to see it.”
For a heartbeat she stood frozen, the noise of the ritual a wall around them. Then she shook her head slightly. “You think words spoken under a goddess’s gaze are enough to heal years of silence?” He met her gaze, steady. “I think words unsaid nearly destroyed me. And if this is my only chance, I’ll risk saying too much.”
The priest’s voice thundered the final mantras, and the crowd erupted, lamps lifted, bells ringing as though the sky itself had opened. Ishita’s face glowed in the firelight, her expression caught between resistance and longing. At last she whispered, “If you truly mean it, then stay long enough to prove it. Don’t vanish when Navami ends, or when Dashami takes her away. Don’t let this be another unfinished sentence.”
Her words struck him harder than any ritual bell. He nodded, his throat tight, the promise unspoken yet binding. The crowd pressed them apart, each swept into different corners of the courtyard as the Puja reached its peak. Yet even separated, he felt closer to her than he had in years, as though the very pause between two days had finally broken the pause between their lives.
When the flames dimmed and the chants ebbed into silence, Anirban stood alone at the edge of the courtyard, breathless. The night sky above was clear, a thousand stars pinned like witnesses. He looked at the goddess, her eyes fierce and eternal, and whispered again: not another unfinished ending. This time, let the silence break for good.
Part 7 – Navami Night: Rain on the Courtyard
Night came with a restless energy, as if Navami itself could not decide whether to celebrate or mourn the hours slipping away. The Bonedi Bari courtyard was alive again—lamps lit, incense thick, dhaak beating with relentless vigor. Guests thronged in and out, their voices layering over one another in waves of gossip, laughter, chanting. The idol glowed beneath a halo of smoke and light, her eyes fierce yet compassionate, watching everything with the calm of eternity. Anirban stood at the edge of the courtyard, aware of the throng but focused on the space between lamps where Ishita moved, her sari a deep crimson, her hair braided neatly, her smile quick when an elder blessed her, her silence sharp when she thought no one noticed. He had learned by now to read her quiet moods better than her words.
The rituals passed with gravity, the priests chanting, families folding palms, bells clanging. Afterwards came the songs—young cousins coaxed into singing Rabindrasangeet, elders joining with voices roughened by age but bright with memory. Anirban sang once as a boy, his voice cracking in embarrassment, and Ishita had teased him for weeks. Tonight he did not sing, but he watched her hum softly, her lips barely moving, and the memory of that laughter brushed his chest like a hand.
Then, as the night deepened and the crowd began to thin, a shift came. Clouds rolled in from the east, heavy and impatient, and the air thickened with the smell of approaching rain. The dhaak beats slowed, the singers drifted into chatter, and suddenly a sharp gust of wind rattled the lamps. Thunder cracked above, startling the children, and within minutes the rain arrived in a furious sheet. The courtyard scattered—women pulling their saris up, men rushing to cover offerings, children shrieking with delight. The idol remained untouched beneath her canopy, but everything else surrendered to the downpour.
Anirban darted toward the veranda, but then he saw Ishita, standing stubbornly in the middle of the courtyard, struggling to gather the garlands that had fallen from the altar. Without thinking, he ran to her, the rain soaking him in seconds, his hair plastered to his forehead, his kurta heavy with water. “Leave them!” he shouted, but she shook her head, laughing despite the chaos. “The flowers shouldn’t be wasted!” Together they scooped the garlands into a basket, the petals slippery, the colors bleeding into their hands. The rain hammered down, drumming harder than the dhaak, drowning their words until only their laughter carried.
By the time they reached the veranda, they were both drenched, water dripping from their clothes, their breaths ragged with exertion and something unspoken. They set the basket down, garlands sagging, and stood there facing each other as the storm raged just beyond the roof’s shelter. Ishita pushed wet strands of hair from her face, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining in the lamplight. “You’re still reckless,” she said, half scolding, half amused. “And you’re still impossible to stop,” he replied, grinning through his shiver. Their eyes held, and the sound of the storm seemed to fold into silence between them.
For a moment it felt inevitable—her wet sari clinging to her, his heart pounding against his ribs, the closeness that seemed to erase years of absence. But Ishita broke the spell first. She turned away slightly, wringing out her pallu, her voice steady. “Don’t think a storm can wash away everything.” He swallowed. “I don’t. But maybe it can remind us what survives getting drenched.” She looked at him then, eyes narrowing, as if testing whether he believed his own words. Something in her expression softened, but she said nothing.
The rain went on for hours, drumming on the courtyard tiles, filling the night with its relentless voice. Families settled indoors, sipping hot tea, telling old stories. Anirban and Ishita helped where they could—drying mats, moving trays, calming children—but whenever they crossed paths their eyes lingered a little too long, their silences deepened, their smiles reluctant but real. The storm outside seemed to echo the storm within them, neither willing to end quickly, neither willing to let go.
When the thunder finally softened and the courtyard shimmered under a thousand puddles, the hour was late. Guests had gone, the family retired, only a few lamps flickered stubbornly in the damp air. Anirban found Ishita again near the balcony, watching the rain taper into drizzle. He stepped beside her, careful not to crowd, his voice low. “You were right,” he said. She glanced at him, puzzled. “About what?” “That silence became a habit,” he admitted. “But tonight, for the first time, I felt like we broke it—even if only with laughter in the rain.”
She smiled faintly, her gaze still on the courtyard. “Laughter is easy. Promises are harder.” He nodded. “Then let me begin with easy, and stay for hard.” She turned toward him fully this time, her expression searching his face. Whatever she sought, she found enough to remain silent. The drizzle blurred the night, the idol loomed in the distance, her painted eyes steady. Between them hung a fragile pause, not broken, not yet mended, but alive.
Navami night ended not with fireworks or music, but with the quiet sound of rain dripping from the roof, a rhythm older than any dhaak. And in that rhythm Anirban felt a fragile hope: storms did not always destroy. Sometimes they carved a new silence, one that could be filled.
Part 8 – Dashami Dawn: Sindoor Khela Preparations
Dashami dawn crept in quietly, the kind of dawn that carried a weight of farewell. The courtyard of the Bonedi Bari looked almost subdued after the wildness of Navami’s storm. Puddles still shone in the corners, reflecting the pale morning sky, but the lamps had been relit, the idol freshly adorned with hibiscus garlands, her face calm as if she already knew she would be leaving by evening. The household stirred earlier than usual; women clattered through the kitchen preparing trays of sweets, men discussed the logistics of immersion, and the younger cousins whispered excitedly about sindoor khela, already imagining their faces smeared crimson. Dashami was always bittersweet—joyous with ritual but shadowed with parting—and Anirban felt it keenly as he stepped into the courtyard, the smell of damp earth and incense clinging to the air.
He found Ishita near the idol, arranging baskets of vermilion powder and plates of sweets. She wore a white sari edged in scarlet, her hair coiled into a bun, her face touched with the faint tiredness of sleepless nights but shining nonetheless. When she bent to place a tray at the goddess’s feet, the morning light caught her profile, and Anirban felt the sharp pang of knowing that time was running short. The festival that had pulled them together was already preparing to end, and with it perhaps his chance to prove he meant what he had confessed at Sandhi Puja.
“Need help?” he asked, stepping closer. She glanced up, her eyes unreadable, then nodded toward a stack of plates. “Carry those to the veranda. The women will need them later.” He obeyed, stacking the brass plates carefully, grateful for even the smallest excuse to be near her. As he worked, he said quietly, “You’ve hardly rested these past days.” She shrugged. “No one does during Pujo. Rest comes after Dashami, when the goddess leaves.” He paused, then said, “And when she leaves, what about us?” She stopped adjusting the trays, her hands stilling for a moment before she looked at him, her gaze steady. “Us? That depends on whether you’re still here when the drums stop.”
The words stayed with him all through the morning rituals. He stood beside her as they offered flowers, their shoulders brushing, both chanting softly. He passed her the bowl of sweets during the distribution, their fingers grazing for a heartbeat too long. He caught her watching him once, her eyes softening before she quickly turned away. The family moved like a tide around them—elders blessing, children giggling, cousins teasing—but between the two of them ran a current that only they felt, urgent and unspoken.
By midday preparations for sindoor khela had begun. The women gathered trays of red vermilion, their laughter bubbling as they planned to smear each other’s faces. The air was charged with anticipation, the idol herself gleaming brighter under the noon sun as if waiting for the farewell embrace. Ishita stood with a group of women, her basket of sindoor balanced carefully, her expression calm but distant. Anirban watched from across the courtyard, struck by the symbolism—women preparing to celebrate even as they prepared to let go, laughter masking the heaviness of parting. He thought of her words: that depends on whether you’re still here when the drums stop. He clenched his fists lightly, as if to ground himself. He would not vanish this time.
In the lull before the ritual began, he approached her again. The courtyard was noisy, yet somehow it felt they were standing in a quieter pocket of space. “Ishita,” he said softly. She looked up, a streak of sunlight catching her eyes. “Yes?” He hesitated, then said, “If the goddess can return every year, perhaps we can return too—not to what we were, but to something new.” Her lips parted, a reply trembling, but before she could speak, an aunt swooped in with laughter, pressing a pinch of vermilion onto Ishita’s cheek. The spell broke; Ishita laughed, the women cheered, and soon the courtyard exploded in red as sindoor filled the air like a cloud of fire.
Anirban stood back, watching her laugh as women smeared her face, her sari now stained crimson, her hair dusted with red. She looked radiant, fierce, untouchable. He joined reluctantly when cousins dragged him into the frenzy, vermilion smeared across his forehead, laughter pulling him into the tide. Yet every time he caught Ishita’s gaze through the red haze, he felt the ground shift. There was a challenge in her eyes, a question not yet answered: would he still be here when the sindoor settled, when the goddess departed?
As the frenzy slowed and the women placed final vermilion marks on the idol, Ishita slipped away to the edge of the courtyard, wiping her hands. Anirban followed, his face streaked red, his kurta smeared. They stood side by side, watching the goddess framed in scarlet. “It feels like fire,” he said quietly. She glanced at him, her cheek still bright with sindoor. “It is fire. That’s what parting feels like.” He wanted to reach out, to wipe the powder from her cheek, to leave his hand lingering, but he restrained himself. Instead he whispered, “Not if the fire keeps us warm after.” She studied him, her lips pressing into a line, but she didn’t turn away.
Dashami’s morning ended in a sea of red, the courtyard glowing with laughter, tears hidden beneath bright powder. And in that red haze, Anirban felt both the dread of parting and the fragile possibility of something beginning—if only he could hold on long enough to prove it.
Part 9 – Dashami: The Red Veil
By afternoon the courtyard had transformed into a sea of red. The women’s laughter rang sharp and bright, their saris smeared with vermilion, their faces glowing as they embraced one another, leaving marks of sindoor like unspoken blessings. Children darted through the crowd with streaks of crimson across their cheeks, while the idol herself stood radiant beneath her canopy, her forehead streaked thick with red, her lips almost smiling in the haze of powder and incense. The drums rolled on, heavy and slow, the rhythm of farewell echoing in each beat. Anirban stood at the edge of it all, his kurta stained with vermilion, his forehead streaked, his heart caught between the weight of tradition and the urgency of his own unspoken promise.
Ishita moved through the courtyard like fire itself, her white sari almost entirely crimson now, her hair loosened by playful hands, her cheeks glowing. She smiled, laughed, let herself be drawn into embraces, but whenever her eyes met Anirban’s across the chaos, her expression shifted—softer, searching, a little uncertain. He felt the current between them grow stronger with every glance. This was Dashami, the day of parting, but it was also the day when silence could no longer hide.
When the formal rituals began, the crowd pressed closer, women carrying trays of sweets, men preparing the ropes for immersion later. The air thickened with smoke, the chanting rose, and conch shells blared long and mournful. Anirban found himself near the front, the idol towering above, flowers piled high at her feet. Ishita stood just beside him, her face flushed, her hands folded. For a long moment neither spoke, but the closeness itself was a kind of confession. Their shoulders brushed, their vermilion-smeared arms almost touching.
As the aarti flames passed, their light dancing on every face, Anirban leaned slightly toward her, his voice low but steady. “I don’t want to lose you again.” She turned her head, the vermilion on her cheek startling against the pale of her skin. “You already did once.” “And I’ve regretted it every day since,” he whispered. The drums surged, drowning his words, but she heard. Her gaze softened, then sharpened. “What makes you think Dashami can give back what Ashtami took?” He drew in a breath, his throat tight. “Because it’s not just Dashami. It’s every day after, if you’ll let it be.”
Her lips parted as though to reply, but before she could, an aunt pressed sweets into their hands, breaking the fragile pause. Ishita smiled faintly, almost grateful for the interruption, but Anirban caught the flicker in her eyes. She was listening now, truly listening.
The rituals gave way to the quieter hours of farewell. Women carried trays of sweets to the goddess, feeding her as if she were their daughter about to leave for her in-laws’ home. Tears mingled with laughter, vermilion stains smudged into sobs. Ishita placed a sweet gently at the idol’s lips, her eyes bright, her hands trembling faintly. Anirban watched her, struck by how the ritual mirrored their own unspoken parting—the fear of letting go, the hope of return.
Later, as the crowd prepared for the procession to the river, Ishita stepped aside to the veranda, wiping her cheek with the corner of her sari. Anirban followed, his heart pounding. She didn’t turn when he came beside her, but her voice was low. “Everything ends today.” “Not everything,” he said quickly. “Not if we don’t let it.” She shook her head, her hair loosening from its coil. “You say that now, but when the idol is gone and the crowd disperses, what remains? Will you?”
He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small folded scrap of paper, worn from being carried for too long. He held it out to her. “I wrote this three years ago, on the night I left. I never sent it. I thought silence was easier. I was wrong. If you’ll read it, you’ll know I never stopped carrying you.” Ishita hesitated, her fingers hovering before taking the note. She didn’t open it, but her eyes filled as she slipped it into her palm. “Words on paper,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “And yet maybe heavier than all your silence.”
The drums called them back before more could be said. The crowd surged, the idol ready to be lifted, ropes tightened, chants rising. Ishita folded the note into her sari, her eyes meeting his one last time before the immersion. Her face was unreadable—part hope, part sorrow, part something deeper. The red veil of Dashami hung over them both, laughter and tears tangled, the goddess waiting to be carried away.
As the crowd surged forward, Anirban followed, his chest alive with both dread and resolve. He had given her the words; now he had to prove them with presence. Dashami had always been about endings. But maybe, just maybe, this one could be the beginning of what silence had once stolen.
Part 10 – Dashami Evening: The Immersion
The evening sky burned orange, a last defiance before surrendering to dusk. The idol had been lifted carefully onto the wooden platform, her face radiant with vermilion, her crown glinting against the fading light. Around her the crowd pressed close, drums rolling slow and heavy, conch shells blowing long, mournful notes that seemed to pierce the air. The air itself felt thick with grief and reverence, the inevitable rhythm of Dashami’s farewell. Anirban walked with the crowd, his heart thrumming in time with the dhaak, his gaze darting through the blur of bodies until he found Ishita walking ahead, her white sari streaked crimson, her braid loosened by the day’s frenzy. She carried herself with composure, but her steps betrayed the heaviness of farewell.
The procession moved through the narrow lanes, lanterns bobbing, smoke rising in curling ribbons, petals raining from balconies as neighbors leaned out to shower the goddess with flowers. Children ran along the sides, their laughter jarring against the solemnity, while elders walked barefoot, chanting, their voices breaking. Anirban felt the city itself was alive in this farewell—the streets pulsed with memory, the walls soaked with devotion, the air trembling with drums. And through it all, the thought pulsed: when the goddess leaves, what remains? Will Ishita let him remain?
At the riverbank the crowd swelled, the Hooghly stretched wide and dark, its surface gleaming with reflections of fire and sky. The idol was set down carefully near the water, the drums now insistent, the conches frantic. Women wailed softly, men tightened the ropes, children stared wide-eyed at the shimmering figure about to vanish into the depths. Ishita stood among the women, her palms folded, her face lit by the last light of day. Anirban moved closer, until he stood just behind her, the smell of river water and incense flooding his senses.
As the priests began the final chants, Ishita whispered, almost to herself, “Every year she leaves, and every year we wait. But people are not gods, Anirban. They don’t always return.” He stepped closer, his voice low but fierce. “Then let me prove I’m not leaving. Not this time. Not again.” She turned her head slightly, her eyes finding his, shimmering with tears and firelight. “Do you mean it beyond this moment?” “I mean it beyond every moment,” he said. “If you’ll let me.”
The idol was lifted once more, carried by men chanting “Bolo Durga Mai ki—Joy!” The crowd roared the reply, voices breaking into both triumph and grief. The idol moved toward the water, her figure glowing against the river’s dark mouth. Ishita’s eyes filled, her lips trembling as she murmured the farewell prayers. Anirban felt the weight of her silence pressing him, demanding more than promises, demanding presence. And so, as the idol touched the water and the drums surged in a frenzy, he took her hand. Not hesitantly, not in a fleeting brush, but firmly, as if to say he was anchoring himself here.
She stiffened at first, surprised, but then her fingers tightened back around his. The drums thundered, the idol swayed deeper into the river, the cries of the crowd rose to the sky, and yet all Anirban felt was her hand in his, warm and trembling, alive. “I don’t know if I can believe you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Then let me spend every day after this proving it,” he said.
The idol slipped slowly into the current, her crown dipping, her face half-submerged, the vermilion bleeding into the water like fire dissolving into dusk. The crowd cried out in unison, “Asche bochor abar hobe!”—next year she will return. The chant echoed over the water, rising into the night, but for Anirban it was not only about the goddess. It was his own vow, carried on his breath, binding him to the hand he held. Next year, and every year, I will be here. With you.
When the idol disappeared beneath the waves and only the ripples remained, Ishita turned to him, her face streaked with tears and sindoor. She didn’t speak, but she didn’t pull her hand away. The silence between them was no longer a wound; it was a space waiting to be filled.
As the crowd dispersed slowly, voices hoarse from chanting, lamps flickering in the evening wind, Anirban and Ishita walked side by side along the riverbank. The air smelled of water and smoke, the ground slick with petals, the night alive with both ending and beginning. She finally said, softly, “Stay, Anirban. Don’t make me wait for another immersion to hear you again.” He looked at her, the glow of lanterns painting her face, and answered with the steadiness of someone who had finally chosen: “I will.”
The drums still echoed faintly as they walked back together, the city settling into the quiet after farewell. Dashami had ended, the goddess had left, but for them something had remained—a promise, fragile but real, carried in red-streaked hands through the night.
END
