This is the time of year when the first thing I do every morning – even before I brush my teeth – is run to the balcony to check if my shiuli plants are flowering yet. It is hard to explain just how joyful I felt in that minute. Because the blooming of the shiuli heralds the arrival of my favourite time of year: Durga Puja, and that’s.
After a week of disappointment, today was the morning when I saw the first buds pushing through on the branches.
As children, we were allowed to buy five new outfits – for the five principal days of the Pujo period – along with a new pair of shoes. After many agonising days – as she debated the merits and demerits of each choice – we would finally make that fateful trip to finalise our purchases just in time to pull them out for the pandal-hopping that we had been looking forward to all year. Even after I grew up, the magic of the Pujas never quite faded for me. As a teenager and a young adult, I still carved out a couple of days every year to visit the best pandals in the city. The urge to dress up in new clothes every day of the Pujas faded with time, but my enthusiasm for the festival never did. I offered Anjali early in the morning; I presented myself at meal times to gorge on the bhog; I even turned up to enjoy the cultural festivals in the evenings.
The trawling of the shops began a full month before the festive period, as my mother – the most indecisive shopper I have ever known – dragged us from New Market to Gariahat to Chowringhee to shortlist all the best options.
