Saugata Chakraborty

The air crackled with festive anticipation, a strange mix of devotion and delirium. Shantilal, still adjusting to the new ruby ring on his finger and the unfamiliar sensation of being a “husband,” trailed behind Anjali, who was navigating the throngs of pandal-hoppers with the determination of an inspired Abhimanyu approaching the Chakravyuh in a saree. He felt like a bewildered yak herded into a kaleidoscope of flashing lights and blaring loudspeakers.

“Ready for some cultural immersion, Shantu?” Anjali chirped, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Shantilal, a man of quiet contemplation more accustomed to the ordered world of the his government office, merely grunted. He was yet to fully grasp the scale of Durga Puja madness that gripped the city.

Their first stop was a pandal themed “Global Warming: The Fiery Fury of Ma Durga.” A giant papier-mâché thermometer towered over the goddess, its mercury rising ominously. The accompanying pamphlet declared, “This year, Ma Durga battles not Mahishasura, but the demon of rising temperatures!” Shantilal, sweating profusely in the humid pandal, felt a surge of unexpected empathy for the demon.

“This one’s supposed to be amazing, Shanti!” Anjali yelled over the din, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “The theme is ‘Globalization and the Bengali Diaspora’!”

Shantilal winced. He’d hoped for something a bit more… traditional. Maybe a nice, straightforward Durga slaying Mahishasura. Instead, he was confronted with a giant fiberglass globe, precariously balanced on the head of a bewildered looking asura, while miniature figurines of Bengalis in business suits and saris clutching laptops and suitcases sprouted from its continents.

“It’s… something else,” he mumbled, trying to decipher the artistic statement behind a giant papier-mâché NRI brandishing a green card.

The next pandal was even more baffling. “The Existential Angst of the Urban Millennial,” proclaimed a banner in psychedelic colours. Inside, Durga, looking surprisingly morose, was slumped on her lion, staring what appeared to be a giant Blackberry. Asuras, dressed in skinny jeans and sporting man-buns, were glued to their own devices, their faces illuminated by an eerie blue glow.

“Get it?” Anjali nudged him, her voice a mix of amusement and awe. “It’s like, they’re all so connected, yet so alone!”

Shantilal nodded numbly. He felt a sudden urge to escape this madness and find solace in a plate of greasy biryani.

But Anjali was on a mission. “Come on, Shanti! This next one has the theme of “Golden Tradition of Bengal.”

The image of paddy fields getting ready for harvest flashing in Shanti’s inward eye disappeared in a bizarre twist. The “traditional” idol was adorned with real gold jewellery, and the organizers had hired a team of hefty bouncers to stand guard, looking more like they stood inside a bank vault than in a social gathering.

“Apparently, some businessman donated all this jewellery,” Anjali explained, her voice barely audible over the chanting of priests and the clicking of cameras. “They say it’s worth crores!”

Shantilal felt a headache building up. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that the true spirit of the festival was getting lost amidst all the extravagance and commercialism.

As they moved from one pandal to another, the themes became increasingly bizarre. There was another dedicated to global warming, with the demon Mahishasura depicted as a giant carbon footprint. A 100-year old puja showcased the “evils of fast food,” with the demon’s army composed of burgers and fries.

“This is madness,” Shantilal muttered under his breath, as they entered a pandal where the idol was dressed in a replica of a famous Bollywood actress’s outfit in the latest Devdas adaptation.

“Oh, come on, Shanti,” Anjali chided, “It’s all in good fun. Besides, look at the craftsmanship!”

Shantilal sighed. He knew he was fighting a losing battle. He decided to surrender to the chaos, focusing on the delicious street food and the infectious energy of the crowd driving them to the next destination.

The pandal, titled “The Metaphysics of Rosogolla,” was a monstrosity of swirling milk and sugar, with Durga, inexplicably, emerging from a giant vat of the sweet, her expression a mixture of ecstasy and indigestion. Shantilal, his head spinning, felt a deep sense of despair. He longed for the simple days before pujas became platforms for intellectual pretension and artistic one-upmanship.

Exhausted and bamboozled, Shantilal finally stumbled upon a small, unassuming pandal. No grand themes, no philosophical statements, just a simple, serene image of Durga, her eyes radiating strength and compassion. Shantilal felt a wave of relief wash over him.

“This,” he declared, sinking onto a nearby bench, “is what I call a puja.”

Anjali, however, was unimpressed. “It’s a bit… basic, don’t you think?” she said, already scanning the crowd for the next “innovative” spectacle. Shantilal sighed. He realized that this was just the beginning of a lifetime of navigating the chaos of Durga Puja with his intellectually inclined wife. He could only hope that next year, the pandals would feature themes slightly less likely to induce an existential crisis. Perhaps “Durga’s Favourite Fish Recipes” or “The Aerodynamics of Asura Flight.” One could only hope.

“Look, Shantilal!” Anjali exclaimed, pointing towards a pandal that seemed to be constructed entirely out of old computer parts. “Isn’t it innovative? The theme is ‘Cyber Shakti’!”

Shantilal stared at the monstrosity, a giant Durga idol made of motherboards and wires, wielding a mouse instead of a trident. He wondered if this was what religious experiences had come to in the 21st century.

As the night wore on, the lines between reality and fantasy blurred. Shantilal started seeing demons in the shadows and hearing the goddess whisper in his ear. He wondered if he was hallucinating or if the festive madness had finally gotten to him.

As the clock resembled a recliner, they made their way back home. Shantilal’s head was spinning. He collapsed onto the sofa, overwhelmed by the sheer absurdity of it all. Anjali, however, was exhilarated.

“Wasn’t it amazing, Shantu?” she exclaimed. “So much creativity, so much innovation!”

Shantilal, massaging his temples, could only manage a weak smile. “Yes, Anjali,” he sighed. “Truly mind-numbing.”

As he drifted off to sleep, he had a strange dream. He was standing before a giant television screen, where a booming voice announced, “Welcome to Durga Puja: The Ultimate Showdown! Tonight, Ma Durga faces her toughest challenge yet – the bureaucracy!”

Shantilal, jolted awake, felt his ticker do a frantic bhangra. Turning to Anjali, however, he found her sporting the serene expression of a meditating sloth. All his misgivings – poof! – vanished faster than a bureaucrat’s promise. This wasn’t chaos, this was a carnival of the senses! It was Kolkata in its full glory – a glorious mess, utterly unpredictable, like the tamarind water of its ubiquitous phuchkawallas, where you never knew what you were going to get, but somehow, it always worked.

(Note: The mention of Blackberry is natural as Shantilal and Anjlai got married in August, 2004. The Mumbai couple that you may have read about in ‘Mostly Mundane’ spent their first year of marriage in a more laidback Kolkata before making the move to the Maximum City.

Oh! You haven’t read ‘Mostly Mundane’ yet, and have liked Shantilal and Anjali already. Probably, it’s time to catch the couple in their fullest till date. Here’s where you can find them wandering in the Amazon: https://amzn.in/d/9C2FEGZ )