Tag Archives: autumn


Ever since my childhood with the first peep of dawn on Mahalaya the big, old Telefunken radio sitting atop my grandfather’s bedside table came alive with Mahishasur Mardini and  the legendary Birendra Krishna Bhadra’s Chandi Path broadcast on Akashvani (কলকাতা  ক).

Tarpan 2

Traditionally Mahalaya signifies the end of Pitripaksh with a pre-dawn ritual of paying respect to one’s fore-fathers on the ghats of Ganga and the dawn of Matripaksh or Devi Paksha, the fortnight of the Devi, fifteen days from the new Moon  of  Mahalaya to the full Moon of Kojagari Purnima.

But as a child, Mahalaya would have a very different  significance for me. I would start counting days as Mahalaya would mean Durga Puja was round the corner. The  Agomani songs would start the drum roll in my heart much before the Dhakis started doing their rounds down each alley, beating the traditional dhaks, flamboyant in their vibrant upholstery, to the festive beats. News would trickle in every day from  the neighbourhood Mallik Bari, where the Kumors or the artisans would be camping from after Holi, patiently giving  shape to an idol on a structure of  clay, bamboo, straw. As we would approach Mahalaya, the idol would near its final stages as well, waiting for a coat of ‘garjan tel’ – a last touch of lustre over the mat paint.


I would wait for this dawn of  Devipaksh for watching Chakshu Daan. Every year my grandfather would take us through the  arched corridors of Mallik Bari, into the courtyard where the artisan sat creating magic with clay and paint. I would watch with awe as the master artisan added deft brush strokes of paint to  the eyes of the Pratima in the darkened hall of the Thakur Dalan, by the light of a lamp, a ritual of painting life into the idol.  And with this the  mere idol of clay, bamboo, jute and reed adorned with mat paint and lustre, suddenly transformed into the living, breathing, all-seeing Trinayani Durga, the slayer of Mahishasur.


Picture courtsey :

Picture courtsey :


Posted by on September 18, 2009 in Memories, Uncategorized


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Every time, at this time  of the year,  in the month of Ashwin, the heavy, grey rain clouds start to pale and wane into fluffy white cotton candy and float around languidly across the azure sky. A mellow sun of the colour of  molten gold  starts to tilt and cast longer shadows. A  naughty, nippy wind nudges the weary, worn leaves to pry themselves off their nodes and fly away with it. And I wonder how to name this season. This season is not Autumn, as we Bangalis, and most other Indians, have another name for Autumn, Hemant. This season of the light, crisp air heavy with the fragrance of the Parijat is better known as Sharat, a season Kalidasa describes in Ritu Samhara as the season of  “nights with silvery and coolant moonbeams of the moon, ... and lakes with white-lotuses”.

It is Sharat when glistening diamond drops of morning dew crown each blade of grass; when the Shiuli lies strewn on the lush, wet green at the break of dawn; when the fields come alive with the Kaash swaying with the playful breeze; when the care free cotton clouds roam the skies lazily. It is Sharat, the harbinger of Sharodotsav that presages Ma Durga’s return home to us with Lakshmi, Ganesh, Saraswati and Kartikeya.

The  Bangali, especially us, who stay away from home,  during this extraordinary season we become a different being. No matter how much we denounce the nuances of our  Bangali roots, the nippy, heady, golden days of Sharat make us nostalgic. Some frenzied few are already homeward bound while others ready themselves to usher in Sharadiya in the land they call home. I, for one, look skyward to catch a cloud, wait to catch a glimpse of  a blushing lily, yearn for the golden touch of the sun. I, for one, lose myself in a flurry of  festive activities to welcome the Anandomoyee home.

Water lily


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Posted by on September 18, 2009 in Uncategorized


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