It is Maha-Ashtami –
The aarti at night
And a Bangali’s heart
Cannot feel more overwhelmed,
The sound of conches,
The staccato ringing of the bell
The rhythmic beat of the drums
And the priest, chanting, singing
Almost dancing
And Ma – in all her splendour
Shimmering in the autumn glory
A screen of thick fragrant Dhuno
Casts an invisible cloak on all
One deep breath and
It all feels like a long, slow dream
Eternal, ethereal
All sounds fade
Gradually in the background
And I stand
Facing a pair of jet-black, elongated eyes
Was that a dream? I ask
Or is this one is?
I feel like an object myself
A diagram in a book
A pencil in a box
The shadow of a block
The viewer somewhere far away
In that cosmic whiteness
Ma laughs,
Why do you need to bother?
Like the Priest -pray
Like the Dhaaki – play
Like the Dhuno – burn
In a few days, Dashami comes
Then again next year
When you hope all this comes back again…
The conch shell gets louder
The bells ring harder
The dhak dispels the dark of night
And the aarti reaches a crescendo
A pair of cymbals come my way
And I realise there is only one way to celebrate –
The cymbals add to the orchestra of the Gods,
But the smokescreen stays,
Inseparable from the puja itself…
23rd June. 2026
Comments
Post a Comment