Sashay is such a beautiful word. An approximation of sorts, but beautiful nonetheless. More so, when you appropriate it to the dramatic shuffle of feet that lead Ma Durga to her watery abode. The sweat and blood of the labouring mortals who carry her on their shoulders may dribble into the mud and slush of the ghats, but she “sashays” her way to the Ganga.

Meanwhile, the ghats are rife with a schizophrenically impassioned celebration. It’s a celebration which oscillates between almost animal-like abandonment and nostalgia-hued mellowness. Portly men in sweat-drenched kurtas wriggle their hips to the dhak, as their vermilion streaked wives in garod saris smile indulgently. Foreigners in three-quarters capture the sights and the sounds in their handycams, while scrawny kids in ragged knickers wait patiently beside them to collect the clothings and ornaments of the immersed idol.

Para kakus haggle with the dhakis who have led the visarjan procession. Wiry, colourful balloons find their way into the picture as do shiny, paper whistles. Deployed policemen leer at the women dancing to the beats of dhak, inebriated youths leer at them too. They worm their way closer to them (the youths, not the policemen). That’s when the men-folk decide that it’s time to huddle the weomen back to their respective trucks and matadors. At a quiet corner of the ghat, a frail old lady in a white tant sari, is paying her respect to the goddess before fetching some Ganga water in her empty soft-drink bottle.

... contd.