The Homecoming

Arvind Sen

Part 1 – Boarding from the West

October in New York is always sharper than one expects. The cold doesn’t announce itself in long winter winds but slips in with small betrayals—the sting in the air when you step out of the subway, the sudden bitterness of coffee that seemed warm enough just yesterday, the leaves crackling underfoot before their time. On the morning of my departure, I stood by my apartment window in Queens, suitcase zipped and waiting like an obedient child, and watched the early commuters hurry past in coats and scarves. Their world was turning toward Thanksgiving, toward Halloween decorations strung up on porches. Mine was turning toward something older, wilder, brighter—the homecoming of a goddess in another land.

Packing had been less about clothes and more about memory. Shirts folded around packets of gifts: a perfume bottle for my mother, two hardback novels for my father, a tin of cookies for my niece. Between layers of fabric, I had hidden not just belongings but also the anticipation of nights drenched in dhaak beats, of streets smelling of shiuli blossoms, of a city that waited for me even when I did not belong to it entirely. That is the paradox of diaspora—you belong everywhere and nowhere, but in October, Bengal claims you back.

JFK International Airport was already awake, restless with its endless choreography. Families clustered near luggage carts, businessmen typed frantically on laptops, and young couples whispered goodbyes into each other’s hair. At the Air India counter, I joined a serpentine line of passengers whose faces mirrored my own anticipation. Saris rustled, children clung sleepily to their mothers, and voices in Bangla floated above the hum of English announcements. It was strange how, in that terminal, the flight to Kolkata felt less like a plane ride and more like a collective migration.

I remember standing with my boarding pass in hand, looking at the digital display: AI 102 – New York to Delhi – Connecting to Kolkata. The time zone shifts, the hours in transit, the monotony of waiting rooms—all of it dissolved into one single certainty: that I was on my way to Pujo.

Airports are liminal spaces, neither here nor there. The walk through security, shoes off, belt in a tray, laptop splayed like an offering, felt like shedding a skin. Behind me lay the life I had been living—late nights of work, subway rides, grocery runs. Ahead of me stretched a journey back into ritual, into nostalgia, into a city I had been carrying in my bones.

At the gate, people milled about with the restlessness that precedes long travel. A boy munched on chips while his father scrolled on a phone. An elderly woman sat quietly, her hands folded over a handbag, her eyes carrying the stillness of prayer. A group of students laughed too loudly, already rehearsing the excitement of being home. I found myself sitting by the window, watching as the aircraft gleamed under the early afternoon light.

Inside me, there was an undercurrent of unease too. Would Kolkata still feel the same? Would I find the same alleys glowing with pandal lights, the same taste of mishti from the neighborhood sweet shop, the same warmth of voices calling my name across crowded streets? Time has a way of altering what memory guards too preciously. Yet Durga Pujo is not just festival—it is a ritual of return, an anchoring that defies change.

When boarding was announced, the line formed with an eagerness that betrayed everyone’s fatigue. Children tugged at their parents’ hands, aunties clutched passports, uncles muttered about seat preferences. As I stepped into the tunnel that led to the aircraft door, I felt an invisible bridge stretch across oceans, binding this moment in New York with another yet to unfold in Kolkata.

The cabin air smelled faintly of sanitizer and fabric, the neutral scent of nowhere. I found my seat by the window and settled in, stowing away the suitcase that now carried both gifts and expectations. Around me, the chatter of passengers grew—a mixture of English, Bangla, Hindi, even snippets of Spanish and Arabic. It felt like a caravan of voices all moving eastward, toward a common flame.

As the plane pushed back and taxied toward the runway, I caught sight of Manhattan’s skyline in the distance, jagged and cold against the autumn sky. For a fleeting moment, I thought of what I was leaving—the friendships that had shaped me, the rhythms of another kind of life, the city that had taught me resilience. Then the engines roared, and the ground fell away.

We lifted into the sky, slicing through clouds, leaving behind the skyscrapers, the freeways, the rivers carved by steel bridges. Soon, all that remained below was a scatter of lights, retreating, dissolving into distance. Ahead stretched hours of suspension, hours in which to dream, to remember, to wait.

In that ascent, I whispered to myself a small prayer—not to gods or deities, but to time itself: let the journey be kind, let the homecoming be whole.

Part 2 – Across the Skies

The moment the plane levels after takeoff is always a strange surrender. The seatbelt light flickers, the engines steady into their long drone, and the world outside the window becomes nothing but a blank canvas of clouds. Somewhere beneath us lies the Atlantic, cold and endless. Somewhere ahead, unseen, lies the land I left years ago, the land that refuses to loosen its grip on me.

I watch the city lights recede, then vanish. New York—sharp, efficient, restless—shrinks into memory. I am carried now by the rhythm of the aircraft, the invisible paths traced across sky by countless journeys like mine. Between departure and arrival lies this suspended realm, a kind of sky-borne purgatory where time bends and hours lose their edges.

The cabin is a world unto itself. The man beside me has already lowered his seat, wrapped in a blanket, his breath shallow with half-sleep. Across the aisle, a child fidgets, kicking her mother’s armrest while humming a tune. A group of students in the back laugh too loudly, their excitement bubbling over duty-free whiskey bottles and the thrill of going home together. Each of us carries our own reasons for this journey—family, nostalgia, duty, escape—but for now, we are bound together in the same metal shell, moving eastward like a migrating flock.

I order tea when the flight attendants begin their first round of service. The paper cup warms my palms, and I close my eyes as the steam rises. It is not the tea of home—no sharp fragrance of cardamom, no milky sweetness balanced against bitterness—but it reminds me of train journeys in Bengal, of cups handed through barred windows, of stations where the air smelled of coal dust and fried snacks. Travel collapses time like that, pulling fragments of memory into the present without warning.

Somewhere over the ocean, the cabin lights dim. Screens glow with moving images: an action film, a Bollywood romance, the dotted progress map of the aircraft crawling toward Europe. I don’t watch any of them. Instead, I lean my head against the window and let my mind drift.

Durga Pujo was never just a festival in my childhood; it was a rupture in time. Days leading up to it would shimmer with expectation—new clothes folded neatly, rehearsals of cultural programs at the community stage, the para filling with bamboo poles and canvas sheets. Then, suddenly, the city would transform. Pandal gates rose overnight, fairy lights draped across alleys, dhaakis arrived with their drums slung across shoulders. The air itself grew heavier with sound and incense. Even now, thousands of miles away, I can hear it—the first beat of dhaak that always felt like the heart of the goddess herself waking.

I remember the first Pujo I missed after moving abroad. I had been in Boston then, surrounded by maple leaves turning crimson, working late nights in a library where silence hung thick. On Ashtami, I scrolled through photos my friends sent: them in crisp kurtas and sarees, faces lit by pandal lights, plates piled with bhog. I smiled at the screen, but inside, there was an ache as though I had been cut off from a river that had always carried me. That ache never quite went away.

Now, as the plane hums steadily eastward, I feel the old ache transform into anticipation. I imagine the pandals already glowing in Kolkata, artisans in Kumartuli adding final touches of paint, dhaakis rehearsing their rhythms, families crowding New Market for last-minute shopping. The city is alive in festivity, waiting. And I am moving toward it, pulled like iron to magnet.

Dinner is served: foil-wrapped trays of rice, dal, chicken curry. The flavors are dull, muted by altitude, but the act of eating together softens the silence of the cabin. Strangers exchange small smiles, request extra bread rolls for their children, clink plastic cups of wine. There is comfort in this communal anonymity—we are together, yet each enclosed in our private longings.

Hours stretch. The world outside remains dark, a boundless void. The captain announces we are crossing into European airspace, but the geography feels meaningless when all you see is blackness. I adjust my seat, wrap myself in the thin airline blanket, and close my eyes. Sleep comes in fragments, interrupted by turbulence, by the shuffle of footsteps in the aisle, by the crying child who cannot be soothed.

Dreams blur with memory. I see my grandmother lighting an incense stick before the goddess, her lips moving in silent prayer. I see myself as a boy, running barefoot across the courtyard to watch the neighborhood idol being unveiled. I see the glow of oil lamps flickering against faces I cannot quite place anymore. I wake with a start, heart racing, unsure whether I am in the sky or still in those forgotten alleys.

The progress map on the screen shows us drifting over Europe now. London, Paris, Vienna—names sliding past like whispers. Passengers stir, stretch, adjust watches. A young man in the row ahead calls his mother from the inflight Wi-Fi, his voice hushed but brimming with joy: “Ma, aschhi ekhon, abar dekhbo tomar sathe Pujo.” I smile despite myself. Across the ocean, the same sentence is echoing in countless homes—sons and daughters returning, mothers and fathers waiting. The homecoming is not mine alone; it is an entire people’s ritual of return.

Dawn creeps slowly through the windows. A faint line of gold breaks the horizon, painting clouds with fire. The cabin stirs awake. Breakfast trays arrive—bread, omelet, fruit. Coffee smells sharper in the morning air. The fatigue of the journey clings to everyone, but beneath it runs a hum of anticipation. The long night has passed; the day of arrival inches closer.

As the sun climbs, I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window. The world outside is dazzling, sky melting into endless blue. Somewhere below, continents roll past unseen. But my heart is already racing ahead, to the riverbanks of Kolkata, to streets blazing with light, to the sound of dhaak calling me home.

And in that moment, suspended between skies, I understand: the journey itself is part of the ritual. To travel across oceans in search of belonging is to enact the very myth of the goddess—to leave, to return, to remind ourselves that home is not a place we inhabit, but a place that inhabits us.

Part 3 – Stopover Drift

The wheels touch down in Doha with a muted jolt, and the cabin erupts in the soft chaos of transit. Seatbelts click open, overhead bins slam, passengers reach impatiently for bags even though the doors remain sealed. I sit back and wait, watching the small, glowing world outside the window—rows of lights arranged like beads on an endless string, the desert city shimmering awake in the darkness.

Doha airport is less a terminal than a mirage, a gleaming cathedral of glass and steel. The moment I step into its cooled corridors, the air feels rehearsed, scrubbed free of any trace of desert sand. Everything gleams—polished floors reflecting light like mirrors, boutiques displaying gold watches and designer scarves, digital billboards flashing in twenty languages. I am suspended in a place that belongs to everyone and no one.

Here, time has its own rules. The body is weary from half-sleep in cramped seats, the stomach disoriented by meals served at odd hours, yet the clocks insist it is dawn. My watch tells me one story, the airport another. In between them, I drift like a traveler without anchor, caught in the net of time zones.

I wander the concourse, following the flow of other transit passengers. A family from Kerala huddles by a bench, the children sharing packets of biscuits while their father checks the next gate. A group of young men in jeans and jackets stroll past, their laughter spilling over duty-free perfumes and cartons of cigarettes. A woman in an abaya glides silently, her face serene, her stride certain. Every traveler here carries their own invisible map—one home left behind, another waiting ahead.

The shops sparkle with temptations: rows of chocolate, perfume bottles lined like glass soldiers, electronics glowing with slick advertisements. But none of it interests me. My journey is not about acquisition, but about return. Instead, I buy a bitter espresso from a café and sit near the large window where planes taxi against the dim orange horizon. The coffee burns my tongue, sharp enough to keep me awake. Around me, voices weave together in a global tapestry: Arabic, English, Hindi, French, Mandarin. Yet beneath them, I catch fragments of Bangla too—familiar syllables that land like warm hands on the shoulder.

At moments like these, the festival I am traveling toward feels both distant and immediate. Here in this antiseptic terminal, with its conveyor belts and security checks, how can one imagine the pandals of Kolkata, lit up like palaces, alive with drumming and conch shells? And yet I do. I close my eyes, and the memory arrives unbidden: the way my street back home glowed on Saptami night, the way the goddess’s eyes seemed to meet mine as if recognizing me across years of absence. The tug is visceral, as if the city itself has extended a hand across continents to draw me back.

Waiting areas in airports are curious places. People sit shoulder to shoulder, each locked in private silence. Some scroll through phones, some doze with heads tilted back, some clutch boarding passes as though they were talismans. I, too, drift between wakefulness and dream. The espresso fights with fatigue, my body sways with phantom turbulence. At times, I forget which direction I am facing, which day it is. The concept of morning and evening has dissolved into fluorescent light that knows no mercy.

I think of my mother then. She will be preparing for Pujo, as she has every year, with a mix of devotion and practicality. She will be choosing flowers, polishing the silver plate for anjali, buying extra sweets for guests who drop in unannounced. For her, my homecoming is not just about my presence; it is proof that the circle holds, that distance cannot sever ritual. I imagine her voice on the phone, teasing, “Eta toh ashol homecoming, tomar pujo chara amar pujo kothay?” Without me, her festival is incomplete. Without her, mine does not exist at all.

An announcement crackles through the air, calling passengers to board for Kolkata. My heart lurches at the sound. Even though this is only the connecting flight, not yet the arrival, the name alone strikes like music. I rise, gathering my things, and follow the stream of travelers toward the gate.

The corridor smells faintly of antiseptic and exhaustion. Yet beneath it, I sense another fragrance—shiuli blossoms carried not in air but in memory. The gate agents check documents briskly, the scanner beeps, and I step onto the jet bridge once again. Ahead waits another cramped cabin, another set of hours in suspension. But the direction has shifted now, narrowed to a single point.

The plane waiting on the tarmac is smaller, less glamorous than the transatlantic giant I left. But to me, it gleams brighter. This is the vessel that will cut through the last stretch, bridging the gulf between longing and arrival. As I sink into my seat and fasten the belt, I feel the weight of the espresso settle in my chest, steadying me. The engines hum to life, the attendants move through their practiced choreography, and once again the ground slips away.

Through the oval window, I watch Doha recede—a scatter of lights swallowed by desert night. What remains is the promise of return, the pull of the goddess, the city dressed in celebration. Between departure and arrival, between exhaustion and hope, I drift once more, carried not just by the plane but by the inevitability of homecoming.

And in this in-between place, I realize something: the stopover is not merely an interruption, it is a rehearsal. Here in this suspended city of glass, I practice the art of waiting, the patience of distance, the acceptance of being nowhere and everywhere. For without the drift, arrival would not blaze so brightly.

Part 4 – The Descent into Kolkata

The second flight is shorter, but somehow it feels longer. My body, weary from hours of cramped seats and restless half-dreams, craves rest, yet my mind is sharper than ever. Every mile eastward feels heavier with expectation. Somewhere beneath the clouds lies the delta, the rivers splitting and merging like veins, and at the heart of it, the city that raised me.

As the pilot announces descent into Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose International Airport, a ripple passes through the cabin. People straighten their seats, switch off screens, gather their scattered belongings. The young student in the aisle seat beside me fixes her kajal in a compact mirror. A father hushes his child with promises of “Dida wait korche.” The air itself changes—thicker, quicker, as though everyone is breathing in the same anticipation.

Through the window, at first, there is only darkness. Then, slowly, the lights appear. Not scattered like in Western cities, but clustered, glowing in pockets, as if the earth itself were dotted with lamps. I press my forehead against the cool glass, searching. And there it is: a streak of golden shimmer, winding like a restless serpent. The Hooghly. That ancient river, both artery and witness. My chest tightens. The last time I crossed it, I was leaving. Now I am returning.

The city reveals itself in fragments as we descend lower—highways lit with unbroken lines of headlights, neighborhoods where festival lights blink like fireflies, pandals glowing like jeweled palaces from above. Even from the sky, Durga Pujo announces itself. For a moment, it seems the entire city has risen to greet those arriving.

The landing is smooth, the wheels kissing the tarmac with barely a tremor. The cabin bursts into applause, a ritual as old as air travel in Bengal. I smile despite myself. Outside, the runway glimmers under floodlights, humid air shimmering faintly. I am here.

But arrival is never immediate. Airports guard their cities with rituals of passage. Immigration queues snake endlessly, passports clutched in impatient hands. The hall is crowded, voices rising in impatience, children crying, trolleys squeaking. Sweat beads on my forehead though the hall is air-conditioned; it is not heat but the proximity of so many lives pressed together. I inch forward, eyes flicking to the officers in their booths, to the green light of the scanners. The line feels eternal, but slowly, I move.

When at last the officer stamps my passport with a thud that feels like thunder, I exhale. The gates open. The city waits.

Baggage claim is its own ordeal. Suitcases circle endlessly, identical and battered, while passengers lean dangerously close to the belt, scanning every passing shape. My suitcase arrives late, dented at one corner, but I barely notice. I am already rehearsing the first breath of outside air, the first step into the city’s waiting arms.

And then it comes. The sliding glass doors part, and the humid night air rushes in like a tide. Thick, heavy, fragrant with something indefinable—dust, smoke, flowers, fried food, sweat, rain lingering in the cracks of earth. It is an air I know in my bones. No foreign city has ever smelled like this.

The arrival hall is a riot of voices. Families crowd behind barriers, craning necks, waving frantically. A man holds up a placard with a cousin’s name. Hawkers call for taxis. Friends embrace in long, wordless silences. I step out into that noise, searching, though I know no one has come to meet me at this late hour. Still, the city greets me as no person could.

Outside the airport, the night is alive. Taxis idle in yellow lines, their paint peeling but their headlights bright. Drivers call out destinations in rapid-fire Bangla. Rickshaw pullers wait in shadows. A tea stall smokes nearby, clay cups stacked high, steam curling into the sky. The dhaak beats faintly in the distance, carried by the wind from some nearby pandal.

I climb into a taxi, its seat covers worn, its dashboard adorned with garlands of plastic flowers. The driver looks at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes curious. “Pujo te eshechhen, dada?” he asks, his voice warm with recognition, as though he knows my story already.

“Yes,” I reply simply.

The engine rattles, the taxi lurches forward, and the city begins to unfold.

Billboards loom overhead, some advertising jewellery, some announcing Pujo events. Strings of fairy lights crisscross the streets, glowing in every color. At every crossing, a pandal rises, some grand, some modest, all radiant. Crowds surge along sidewalks, shopping bags swinging, laughter spilling out into the night. Even in these first glimpses, I see it—the city transformed, remade into a theatre of devotion and joy.

As we drive, I lower the window, letting the wind whip my face. It carries with it the music of Pujo—dhaak, conch shells, the distant echo of songs from loudspeakers. It is not just noise, it is a heartbeat.

I lean back, eyes half-closed, letting the rhythm of the taxi and the rhythm of the city merge. This is the descent—not just into Kolkata, but into belonging, into a ritual older than memory.

For years, I have lived elsewhere. I have walked streets where no one knew my name, where festivals passed unnoticed, where the goddess was only an image on a livestream. But here, in this city blazing with light, I am no longer a stranger.

The taxi turns into a narrower lane, and I see the first pandal up close. It towers over the street, glowing gold, crafted with bamboo and cloth and imagination. People stream in and out, pressing hands together before the goddess, eyes lifted in awe. For a moment, the taxi slows, and I catch a glimpse of her face. Durga—calm, fierce, mother, warrior. Her eyes seem to meet mine across the distance, as if to say: You are late, but you are home.

I close my eyes. The hum of the taxi fades, the city’s noise blurs. All that remains is the goddess’s gaze, the certainty of arrival. The descent is complete.

Part 5 – First Touch of Pujo

The taxi rattles through the streets as if it too is in a hurry to arrive at the heart of the festival. The night outside is ablaze with lights—arches glowing in red and gold, strings of bulbs outlining rooftops, fairy lights cascading like waterfalls from bamboo frames. Even at this late hour, the city does not sleep. Kolkata during Pujo is a city reborn, unwilling to surrender even a second of its brief, luminous life.

I lean against the open window, my face brushed by humid air heavy with a thousand fragrances—incense curling from roadside altars, frying oil bubbling in stalls, the sweetness of cut marigolds, the faint metallic tang of river breeze. Somewhere close, a dhaak begins its rhythmic heartbeat, each beat a pulse that seems to align with my own.

The driver swerves into a lane near Ultadanga, where a pandal dominates the street like a sudden palace. Traffic slows as crowds surge around it, spilling onto the road, their voices a constant murmur rising into shouts of delight. Children tug at their parents’ hands, pointing at the glowing gates. Young men in crisp kurta-pajamas laugh loudly, their hair carefully styled, their eyes darting toward groups of women in new sarees. The city is not just celebrating the goddess—it is celebrating itself.

I step out of the taxi, the fare already forgotten, and let myself be carried by the tide of people. The ground beneath my sandals feels almost alive, vibrating with the push and pull of hundreds of footsteps. Above me, bamboo scaffolding is hidden beneath painted cloth, designed to resemble some temple lost in time. Colored lights run in patterns, chasing one another in endless circles.

Crossing the threshold into the pandal is like stepping into another realm. The crowd hushes instinctively as the goddess comes into view. She towers at the center, her ten arms outstretched, each weapon gleaming under the electric glow. Her eyes are wide, alert, as though she has been waiting not just for the devotees gathered before her, but for me too. To stand before her after so many years is to feel the weight of home descend all at once.

Around me, people fold their hands, lips moving in whispered prayers. Some close their eyes, some gaze upward with awe, some take hurried photos on phones that cannot possibly capture the enormity of presence. I, too, bow my head. But my prayer is less about asking and more about gratitude—for being here, for having returned, for being seen by the goddess even when I had forgotten to look for her in distant lands.

The priest moves in the corner, his voice rising in chant, the bell clanging in rhythm. The smoke of dhuno fills the air, wrapping the goddess in mist. My eyes water, but I do not blink. This is not spectacle—it is memory alive, it is devotion turned into a living city.

Outside, the crowd shifts again, flowing toward stalls that line the street. I am pushed along, unresisting. Food is as much a part of Pujo as prayer. Hawkers shout, their voices rising above the din: “Phuchka! Chaat! Egg roll, chicken roll, mutton roll!” The smells are dizzying.

I stop at a phuchka stall, its glass case fogged from steam. The vendor cracks the crisp shells, fills them with spiced potato, dunks them into tamarind water, and hands them to waiting palms at lightning speed. When my turn comes, I take one, the water dripping down my wrist as I bite. The explosion of tang, spice, and crunch is overwhelming, and I laugh aloud without meaning to. The vendor grins, already making the next. It is not just food—it is communion, a reminder that the city feeds not only its people but also their longing.

Further down, I find a small stall selling mishti—rasgulla floating in syrup, sandesh shaped like conch shells, mishti doi in clay cups stacked high. I take one cup, the earthen texture cool in my hand, and spoon the thick yogurt into my mouth. The sweetness is balanced by a slight sourness, the clay lending its own flavor. It tastes like childhood, like evenings on the terrace with cousins, like Pujo afternoons when the bhog had finished and sweets followed.

The crowd around me thickens as more people pour in. Laughter rises, camera flashes sparkle, loudspeakers play old Pujo songs from Hemanta to Kishore. Strangers brush against me, but no one feels like a stranger. In this press of humanity, everyone belongs.

A little boy runs past me, holding a balloon shaped like the goddess herself, its face painted bright red. His mother scolds him, pulling him back, but he only laughs, the sound carrying into the night. For a moment, I see myself in him—the same joy, the same inability to contain excitement. Time folds. Past and present merge.

I wander through the streets, each turn revealing another pandal, another crowd, another goddess. Some pandals are traditional, with idols painted in soft clay hues, the goddess serene, flanked by her children. Others are experimental, crafted from jute, glass, recycled metal, each telling stories of climate, politics, memory. But everywhere, the goddess is the same—watchful, fierce, maternal. She is not just a deity; she is the city’s heartbeat.

The night deepens, but the energy does not fade. The streets are rivers of movement, flowing endlessly. My feet ache, my shoulders brush constantly against others, but I do not care. I am caught in something larger than myself. This is the first touch of Pujo—the moment when the city pulls me fully into its embrace, reminding me that I am not visitor, not foreigner, but son returned.

When at last I return to the taxi, the driver is asleep against the wheel. I tap gently, and he startles awake, smiling sheepishly. “Bhalo darshan holo, dada?” he asks.

“Darun,” I reply. Wonderful.

As the taxi winds through streets still alive with lights, I lean back, clay cup still in my hand, sticky with syrup and memory. The goddess’s eyes remain in my mind, fierce and forgiving. Pujo has begun—not just in the city, but in me.

Part 6 – Among the Crowds

By the time morning turns into afternoon, Kolkata is already a theater of unrelenting movement. If the first touch of Pujo was a gentle embrace, now it is a flood that sweeps me along, no longer a spectator but a participant in its endless tide.

I step out into the street dressed in a freshly ironed kurta, its cotton still smelling faintly of the shop from which it was bought. Around me, the city has shed its weekday skin—offices forgotten, chores abandoned, even the traffic police moving with an air of resignation rather than control. Pujo has taken over.

The sidewalks thrum with life. At College Street, the bookstalls are half-hidden by makeshift kiosks selling trinkets—glittering bindis, toy trumpets, cheap sunglasses, plastic crowns for children who insist on being little gods and goddesses themselves. I watch as two girls haggle fiercely over bangles, their laughter spilling into the chaos, while a vendor shouts prices in a voice hoarse from the night before.

Further down, the real tide begins. College Square has transformed into a glowing basin of light and devotion. The lake reflects pandals erected like fortresses, their gates adorned with elaborate designs—arches painted to resemble ancient temples, facades shaped like European cathedrals, some daringly modern with glass and mirrors catching the sun. The sheer variety dazzles, each pandal a universe of imagination.

The crowd here is unrelenting. Shoulders press against shoulders, every step forward is negotiated with half a dozen strangers. Yet no one complains. Instead, voices rise in a continuous hum—shouted directions, bursts of laughter, whispered prayers. Somewhere close, a dhaak beats in quick rhythm, its sound cutting through the babble like thunder.

I find myself pressed into the current, carried toward the main pandal. The air inside is heavy with incense, and the goddess towers above, her eyes fierce, her weapons gleaming. Around her, devotees lift their hands, some clasped in prayer, some raised to capture her image on glowing phone screens. A boy next to me stands on tiptoe, craning his neck for a glimpse, his small hands folded tightly. The innocence in his face is almost unbearable; I see in him my own first Pujo, decades ago, when I believed the goddess might truly step down and place her hand on my head.

Outside, the sun blazes, but the crowd only thickens. Hawkers push through with trays balanced on their heads—chops, samosas, ghugni, jhalmuri, even plastic cups of sharbat dripping with condensation. Their voices merge into one long chant of commerce. I pause for a packet of jhalmuri, the puffed rice spiced with mustard oil, green chilies, chopped onions. Each bite is fire and memory, the kind of taste no foreign land has ever replicated.

The current of people carries me next to Kumartuli Park, where the pandal is less ostentatious but alive with artistry. Here the goddess is crafted in clay tones, her face less stylized, almost human in its serenity. The priest fans incense toward her, his forehead streaked with sweat, his dhoti smudged with ash. A group of young dhaakis sit outside, their drums slung across shoulders, waiting for the evening’s grand performance. One of them catches my eye and grins, teeth flashing white, as if to say: Ekhon suru hobe ashol anondo. The real joy begins at night.

As I move through the city, I realize Pujo is not confined to pandals alone. It has spilled into every lane, every courtyard. Women in red-bordered sarees gather in groups, their laughter rising above the clang of temple bells. Men sip tea from clay cups, arguing politics with the same fervor they reserve for cricket. Children chase one another with toy bows and arrows, enacting a drama older than memory. The city itself is the stage, every street a performance.

By evening, the true test begins: pandal-hopping. The term is deceptively light, as though one skips casually from one shrine to another. In truth, it is an ordeal of endurance and wonder. Cars are abandoned at the edge of neighborhoods, traffic police waving helplessly as rivers of people surge into alleys too narrow to contain them. We move like pilgrims through a labyrinth, entering one pandal only to be swept toward the next, never pausing long enough to recover.

At Shobhabazar Rajbari, the heritage pandal glows with old-world grandeur. Oil lamps flicker against centuries-old walls, casting shadows on portraits of ancestors who once hosted the festival for kings. The goddess here is both familiar and ancient, her gaze steady, unshaken by time. Standing there, I feel the continuity of history—that what I witness is not just celebration but inheritance.

From there, the crowd pulls me toward Bagbazar, where the pandal towers high, adorned with intricate designs that shimmer under floodlights. The dhaak here is deafening, a wall of sound that vibrates through the body. I stand transfixed, the drums beating not just in ears but in chest, stomach, bones. Around me, people clap, sway, some even dance, their faces radiant with abandon.

The night grows deeper, yet the energy only intensifies. My legs ache, my throat is raw from shouting directions to friends I lose and find again in the crowd, but I do not stop. Each pandal offers something new—an idol carved from bamboo, another lit entirely by lanterns, another themed after the rivers of Bengal. Together they form a mosaic, a city remade in devotion.

At some point, I pause by the river. The Hooghly flows dark and silent, a stark contrast to the carnival onshore. The lights of pandals reflect faintly on its surface, shimmering like broken jewels. I stand at the railing, breathing deeply, and feel the cool river breeze wash over me. For a brief moment, the chaos recedes, and I sense the ancient rhythm beneath the celebration—the quiet heartbeat of a city that has always lived between excess and silence.

When I turn back, the crowd reclaims me. I am once again part of the tide, no longer resisting. This, I realize, is the essence of Pujo—not solitary prayer, but collective immersion. To be among the crowds is to lose yourself and find yourself simultaneously. You dissolve into the mass, and in that dissolution, you discover belonging.

By midnight, my body is exhausted, but my spirit hums. The streets still blaze with light, the dhaak still pounds, the goddess still gazes unblinking. I make my way home slowly, feet dragging, ears ringing, but heart steady. Tomorrow will bring more pandals, more crowds, more surrender. For now, I carry the goddess’s eyes within me, fierce and tender, guiding me through the darkness.

Part 7 – Nights that Burn Bright

Night in Kolkata during Pujo is not night at all. It is a second day, brighter and louder than the sunlit hours, when the city refuses the logic of sleep. By the time darkness falls, the streets are already surging with bodies, light arches flickering above like gateways into another world. The city hums, pulses, burns with its own radiance.

I set out after dinner, though calling it dinner feels wrong—it was hurried, half-forgotten, a plate of khichuri with labra bhog eaten more for ritual than hunger. The real meal of Pujo is not food but immersion, and it is served in the streets. I step into that feast with anticipation, as though the goddess herself waits at every corner.

The crowds at night are unlike anything else. Families stroll in clusters, children perched on shoulders, their hands clutching balloons shaped like cartoon gods. Couples walk side by side, the girl in a bright saree, the boy in new jeans and sneakers, both carrying the nervous joy of stolen moments. Elderly men move slowly, leaning on canes, but their eyes gleam, unwilling to surrender tradition to younger feet. Everyone is here. No one is left behind.

Salt Lake’s themed pandals rise like dreamscapes. One is built entirely from terracotta tiles, arranged into towers resembling Bishnupur’s temples, the goddess glowing at the center. Another resembles a shattered clock, gears turning mechanically, hinting at time itself bowing before Durga’s return. I walk through them as though wandering through shifting worlds. Each pandal is a question, a performance, a challenge to memory and imagination.

The dhaakis perform in crescendos now, their palms flying across the leather of their drums, sweat pouring down their foreheads as they spin in circles. Their rhythms pierce the night, louder than traffic, louder than voices, louder even than thought. The crowd claps in unison, feet tapping, some breaking into dance spontaneously, arms raised to the sky. The goddess, haloed in smoke and light, seems almost to move with the beat.

At Park Street, the air tastes different. Here the festival meets the city’s cosmopolitan face—restaurants spilling over with diners, fairy lights strung like necklaces across colonial facades, foreign tourists craning their necks in wonder. A group of musicians play guitars at the corner, blending Bengali folk songs with rock riffs. The smell of kebabs mingles with the sweetness of cotton candy. This too is Pujo, not less sacred, only different—where tradition and modernity hold hands under neon skies.

Somewhere near Deshapriya Park, I lose my way in the tide of people. It does not matter. The city carries me forward, depositing me before another goddess, another pandal. This one is minimalist, the idol painted in stark white, her form almost abstract, her face reduced to outlines. Yet the power in her gaze is unmistakable. I stand in silence, strangely moved, as though she strips away the noise and demands something deeper than celebration—an acknowledgment of how fragile and beautiful devotion can be.

By midnight, the streets are more crowded than ever. Cars are useless now; even rickshaws can barely push through. I find myself walking, step after step, as though the city has become one continuous pandal. At every corner, people sell chai in bhaars, the steam curling into the humid night, the taste smoky and sharp on the tongue. At every turn, someone is offering alpona painted across the pavement, white patterns gleaming under streetlights. It feels like walking through a living painting.

I stop at a stall selling egg rolls, the paratha greasy, the egg soft, the onions sharp with lime. I eat it standing, the paper wrapping already translucent with oil, licking my fingers as the dhaak beats again from a nearby lane. Food tastes different during Pujo—spicier, sharper, more alive, as though it too has been blessed by the goddess.

As the night deepens, exhaustion sets in, but it is not mine alone. I see it in the faces around me—sweat-dampened hair, feet dragging, yet eyes shining with stubborn joy. No one wants to go home. To surrender to sleep would feel like betrayal, as if one might miss the very heart of the festival.

At Kumartuli, I pause again, drawn to the quieter pandals where artisans themselves have gathered. Their hands, calloused from months of shaping clay, now fold in prayer before the idols they birthed. There is reverence here that feels older, deeper. I stand behind them, unseen, and whisper my own prayer: May I carry this night back with me, across oceans, may it never fade.

The Hooghly calls me once more. I walk toward the riverbanks, where the pandals give way to stretches of dark water. Here the city’s noise softens. The river reflects fragments of light—blue, red, gold—rippling in silence. Couples sit on the embankment, their faces half-lit by lamps. A group of boys burst firecrackers, their laughter echoing over the water. The goddess watches from somewhere beyond, her reflection trembling in the river’s skin.

At two in the morning, the city is still alive. Buses still honk, pandals still blaze, dhaakis still play as if dawn will never come. My body aches, my throat is parched, but my spirit refuses to yield. Nights like this cannot be wasted on rest. Nights like this burn too brightly.

I walk back slowly through streets littered with flower petals and food wrappers, past sleeping dogs curled against lampposts, past men rolling down shutters only to reopen them in a few hours. The air smells of incense, smoke, and sweet exhaustion. I am part of the city now, inseparable, indistinguishable.

When I finally reach home, it is almost dawn. The first birds call from hidden trees, their voices cutting through the remnants of dhaak still echoing in my ears. I collapse onto a bed, clothes still smelling of smoke and spice, eyes still full of light. Sleep comes like a gift, but not before one final thought:

These are the nights that make memory eternal. These are the nights that burn bright enough to guide me across oceans when I am lost.

Part 8 – The Return Flight

The goddess leaves before we do. On Dashami morning, the streets fill with the slow, solemn rhythm of farewell. The idols are lifted from pandals with ropes and bamboo poles, carried shoulder-high through neighborhoods that only yesterday rang with laughter. Now the air is heavier, thick with the scent of sindoor smeared on faces, the cries of women offering their final pranam, the echo of conch shells marking departure. “Asche bochor abar hobe”—next year again—becomes a promise carried like prayer.

I stand among the crowd at Bagbazar ghat as one idol is lowered into the Hooghly. The goddess, resplendent in red and gold, tilts forward into the water, her eyes still fierce, her smile still serene. The river swallows her slowly, the clay dissolving, the paint running in streaks, until she is gone. Around me, voices rise in song and sob, the dhaak beats in a final frenzy, and then silence falls. The cycle has ended.

But my cycle is not complete until I leave too. The following day, I pack my suitcase again, though this time it feels heavier. It is not the gifts and clothes, but the memories pressed inside—nights of pandal lights, mornings of bhog, the smell of incense lingering on skin. My kurta still carries faint traces of dhuno smoke. My sandals are dusted with the city’s soil. I am reluctant to wash any of it away.

The taxi ride to the airport feels different now. Where before every turn was filled with expectation, now each street feels like loss. The pandals still stand, but their lights are dimmed, their bamboo skeletons exposed in daylight. Men dismantle gates, rolling up cloth, sweeping away petals. The city is already moving on. Yet I know it waits, quietly, to bloom again next year.

At the airport gates, I pause. The same humid air rushes against me, the same chaos of luggage and voices, yet now it feels like an ending rather than a beginning. Inside, the departure hall is a mirror image of arrival—families clinging to one another, children crying, passengers clutching boarding passes like lifelines. I move through security, my steps slow, as though dragging time.

The flight is called. I take my seat by the window, the same seat from which I once watched New York vanish. Now I watch Kolkata shrink. The city spreads below, the river glimmering like molten bronze in the sun. For one last moment, I catch sight of the lights of a pandal still glowing faintly in the distance, refusing to surrender entirely. Then the plane tilts, the clouds rise, and the city disappears.

The cabin is quieter than before. Perhaps exhaustion has subdued the passengers, or perhaps it is the weight of leaving that has drawn us into silence. The attendants move through the aisles with trays, their smiles practiced but kind. I decline food, sipping only water. My appetite has gone, replaced by a fullness that is not hunger but memory.

I lean my head against the window, watching the endless sky. My mind replays fragments of the days just passed: the goddess’s eyes in Ultadanga, the dhaak at Shobhabazar vibrating in my bones, the taste of phuchka dripping down my wrist, the laughter of children running with balloons, the serene face of the clay idol dissolving into the Hooghly. Each memory arrives vivid, precise, unwilling to fade.

As the hours stretch across continents, I begin to understand the nature of homecoming. It is not only about return, but about renewal. To leave one world for another is to remember that we belong to both. My life in New York will resume—emails, deadlines, subway rides—but it will be lit now by the afterglow of Pujo nights. The goddess does not remain in Kolkata; she travels with me, lodged in memory, carried like flame.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, the cabin lights dim, and I finally sleep. My dreams are tangled with sound and color—dhaak beats, conch shells, fairy lights strung across para lanes. When I wake, we are already descending into New York. The pilot’s voice is brisk, the weather report indifferent. Outside, the skyline emerges, tall and cold against the morning sky.

We land. The applause is absent here. People rise in efficient silence, gathering coats and laptops, already thinking of the week ahead. I move with them, though my pace is slower, as though part of me is still lagging behind.

Stepping out into the sharp October air, I realize the homecoming is not over—it has simply changed shape. I have carried Kolkata across the ocean, pressed into memory, alive in scent and sound. The rhythm of dhaak still hums in my chest. The goddess’s gaze still steadies me.

Pujo has ended, but it lingers, as all true homecomings do. It lingers in the heart, refusing to be left behind. And as I walk once more through the glass doors of JFK, suitcase rolling at my side, I whisper the same words I heard at the riverbank: asche bochor abar hobe. Next year again. Always, next year again.

***