Durga Puja is here as always. Back in Kolkata, the city must be pulsing with dhaak, fairy lights, and the fragrance of shiuli flowers. Streets must be impossibly crowded, cousins must be showing off their “Ashtami outfits,”.
And me? I’m in Bengaluru. My grand celebration is watching BMTC buses crawl through Silk Board while Swiggy pings me about dosa discounts. Somewhere my friends are dancing in pandals; I’m dancing around potholes. Same energy, really.
Yes, there are pujas here too , tucked into apartment complexes with velvet curtains and one uncle singing Thakur ’s “Agomoni” off-key.
Meanwhile, my cousins back home are busy flooding Instagram with pandal selfies. They look like they’ve walked into paradise; I look like I’ve walked into a conference call. People here ask me cheerfully, “Pujo kemon lagche ( how is your pujo going) ?” Oh yes, absolutely because nothing says Durga Puja quite like coding in VS Code while reheating leftover pizza .
We Bengalis in exile all repeat the same chant : “Next year, Pujo-te Kolkata jabo.” But Bengaluru traffic and office leave policies laugh in our faces: “Sit down, you’re not going anywhere.”
So here I am, stuck between coconut chutney and corporate deadlines, scrolling reels of dhunuchi naach while Maa Durga herself probably looks down and says, “Babu, even I don’t want to do pandal hopping in this traffic.”
And me? I’m in Bengaluru. My grand celebration is watching BMTC buses crawl through Silk Board while Swiggy pings me about dosa discounts. Somewhere my friends are dancing in pandals; I’m dancing around potholes. Same energy, really.
Yes, there are pujas here too , tucked into apartment complexes with velvet curtains and one uncle singing Thakur ’s “Agomoni” off-key.
Meanwhile, my cousins back home are busy flooding Instagram with pandal selfies. They look like they’ve walked into paradise; I look like I’ve walked into a conference call. People here ask me cheerfully, “Pujo kemon lagche ( how is your pujo going) ?” Oh yes, absolutely because nothing says Durga Puja quite like coding in VS Code while reheating leftover pizza .
We Bengalis in exile all repeat the same chant : “Next year, Pujo-te Kolkata jabo.” But Bengaluru traffic and office leave policies laugh in our faces: “Sit down, you’re not going anywhere.”
So here I am, stuck between coconut chutney and corporate deadlines, scrolling reels of dhunuchi naach while Maa Durga herself probably looks down and says, “Babu, even I don’t want to do pandal hopping in this traffic.”
