My parents asked me to return home to Kolkata for Pujo, but I refused. Other Bengalis in office took leave for four days, but I stayed put, and felt miserable. I began thinking of all the things I loved and missed about the Kolkata Pujo week.

By the time it’s panchami, a huge pandal grows outside the walls of my Kolkata house, in the middle of a narrow street. Well — almost suddenly, if you have ignored the pounding and swearing of workers for the previous two months. Then, one day, you wake up to the sound of the dhaak. It is the most joyous sound in the world. But there are other sounds accompanying it as well: announcements for lost children/husbands/mother-in-laws. These go on through the night. Just when you think you’re finally going to hit the sack, more out of exhaustion than anything else, a hoarse voice cries out for Babushona. Considering that some five million boys in Kolkata are named Babushona, Babushona stays missing for quite a while, till he is found. Then, there’s another announcement — now, for his parents. My father called up to inform me that this year, there were fewer announcements. He thinks it’s because mobile phones are very cheap now.

I also found myself missing everything about Pujo that I hated: the disastrous pujo fashion, the kids who eat everything while pandal hopping, the sweaty crowds, the giant wheel that stops for five minutes when somebody above your chair car gets sick, the shehnai music that whines at every pandal, and the pandals themselves. The funniest pandal I recall was the Titanic one in 1999. Durga and her children were stuck inside a doomed ship, along with dummies of Jack and Rose! I’ve decided to go back home for Pujo from now on, because you just can’t take the Pujo out of a Bengali.

... contd.