10. FROM RAJ BADI TO KOLKATA: MY DURGA PUJA JOURNEY

I was born into a Bengali Brahmin family in Jharkhand, though my family’s story began centuries ago in Bardhhaman, West Bengal. In the 1800s, our forefathers were brought by the local king to serve as priests in his temple, which still stands in our village and is called Raj Badi. The king gave them land instead of salary, ponds for fishing, and fields for farming, while people from other casts worked the land and helped in our households. Life was simple then-mud houses, ponds, vast stretches of green. Over generations, families grew, coal fields expanded, and with independence, the zamindari system ended. My father, like others in our clan, joined Coal India, retiring in 2021.

But if there was one time when history, faith, and family always converged, it was Durga Puja.

Childhood Pujas in Jharkhand

As a child Durga Puja meant reunion. My father has two brothers, and with my brother and cousins, we formed a little gang of five. The festival was the only time when everyone-uncles, aunts, grandparents, and cousins-gathered under one roof, in my grandfather’s house. Five days of chaos, laughter, and love never felt enough.

In our home, my grandfather performed the rituals, while in king’s Raj Badi temple, my father’s cousin led the worship. To us, both were ours. For the women of the house-my mother, two aunts, and grandmother-Puja meant endless cooking and rituals. Each days had its own bhog:

Saptami: Rice, mung dal, five types of fried vegetables, mixed veg curry, chatni, and paayesh (sweet rice pudding).

Ashtami: My favorite-maal pua, deep fried in jaggery laced batter. My grandmother always hid a few extra for me, her little gesture of love.

Navami: The day of sacrifice. A male goat was offered to Goddess in our own verandah. The smell of raw blood, the tilak of red on everyone’s forehead-it all felt both holy and unsettling. My brother and I resisted, but for everyone else, it was Maa Durga’s blessings. What followed was a feast of mutton-roast as a snack, curry at lunch, bheja fry in the evening, and the other round of curry at night. We were unapologetically omnivorous Brahmins.

Dashami: A simpler offering of poha and jaggery, but a day heavy with emotions.

Navami in our village always carried its own gravity. While the women busied themselves with arranging the puja offerings and preparing the courtyard for the rituals, the men of our clan gathered for a task that was almost sacred in its own right-the goat sacrifice. My uncles, strong and skilled, took charge of this ritual. I still remember the way they prepare themselves, almost ceremoniously, sharpening the blade, murmuring a quiet prayer before the act.

Once the goat was offered to the Goddess, the responsibility did not end there. My uncles themselves took the burden of cleaning it-carefully, methodically-never delegating it to an outsider. It was as if the labor itself was an offering, a way of keeping the tradition pure within the family. After the cleaning was done, came the most symbolic part: the division.

Every limb, every piece of flesh, every organ was measured and divided with fairness so that no family in our clan was left wanting. It was not just meat being shared, but the blessings of Goddess herself, equally distributed among her children.

This act of division, performed with such seriousness, carried a deep lesson in unity, one that reminded us that though we lived in separate houses, we belonged to one root, one lineage.

As children, we lived for new clothes, temple visits, and the fair in the Raj Badi ground. As Brahmins, we had a separate entrance that led directly to Maa’s idol, bypassing the crowd. My father would remind us “Say Jai Durge,” and me along with my cousins would shout together, palms folded, feeling invincible under her gaze. Rows of toy stalls, snack counters, and colorful posters in the Raj Badi ground tempted us, though strict parents rarely allowed us to splurge. At night, after story sessions with my grandmother, all of us cousins huddled together, whispering and laughing until sleep took over.

The women hardly stepped out during the festival, but on Dashami evening they dressed in their finest cotton sarees for Devi Baran-the ritual of applying vermillion on Maa Durga before her immersion. For us cousins, Sindur Khela was sheer joy, even as a heaviness lingered in knowing that Maa was leaving.

And yet, Puja was not without its harsh truths. On Dashami, people from other castes came to seek blessings from our family, allowed inside our premises only on that day. I still remember on that day, an elderly man, at least in his fifties, bending to touch my feet when I was just twelve. He told me that as a Brahmin child, my blessing could send him to heaven. I was horrified, embarrassed, and deeply confused. How could age, wisdom, and respect be ignored for the sake of caste? That day, something shifted inside me-I carried both the sweetness of our Puja and the bitterness of its divides.

When Puja ended, we packed our bags with heavy hearts and went back to our own homes, holding on to the memories until the next year. Those five days were a lifeline to my childhood.

Kolkata’s Pujo: A Different World

After marriage, I experienced Durga Puja in Kolkata-and it was nothing like Jharkhand. The city transforms into a dreamscape, where art, culture, and devotion merge. Thousands of pandals bloom like giant work of art. Each idol is a masterpiece. The streets turn into a runway where everyone dresses in their best, pandal hopping late into the night, savoring street food, braving traffic jams, and sticky humidity- yet smiling, glowing, celebrating.

In 2017, I attended Kolkata Puja with Smith, and I was stunned. I had seen glimpse on TV, but nothing compared to walking through those pandals, hearing the dhak, and feeling the pulse of millions moving as one. It was grandeur beyond imagination.

What struck me deeply this time was the quiet difference between the lives of women in my village in Jharkhand and those I saw in Kolkata. Back home, during Durga Puja, I have always seen my mother and aunties working tirelessly from morning till night-cooking breakfast, lunch, dinner for family, and at the same time preparing the bhog for Maa Durga. Their bangles would often chime while stirring the kadhai, their sarees smelling of spices rather than perfume. By the time the food reached everyone’s plate, they themselves were too tired to sit and enjoy. Pandal hopping, getting ready in new sarees, laughing in groups-those were luxuries they hardly allowed themselves. Their joy was hidden in feeding others, in keeping the rituals alive, in the quiet pride of being the ones who nurtured the household and the Goddess alike.

And then, Kolkata showed me completely different canvas. Here, I saw women draped in glamour everyday for the festival-morning looks, evening looks-like the city itself was a stage. Groups of friends laughing, dancing, eating phuchkas and biryanis under the bright light of pandals. No rush to go back to home and cook, no exhaustion dragging down their steps. Their celebrations were about soaking in the movement, living each day of Puja like festival meant for them too.

Standing between these two worlds, I felt pang in my heart. One side, women sacrificing their own joy quietly, and the other, women embracing the freedom to celebrate fully. Both ways of living have their own beauty.

And yet, even amidst the dazzle of Kolkata, I often find myself yearning for the simplicity of Jharkhand-my mother’s bhog, my grandmother’s hidden maal pua, games in the courtyard with cousins, evening fairs at Raj Badi, and the warmth of a reunion that came only once a year.

Two Worlds, One Maa

Durga Puja, for me will always be a story of two worlds. In Jharkhand, it was intimate, rooted, and bound to family traditions. In Kolkata, it is vast, spectacular, and overflowing with creativity. Both have shaped me, both live in me.

Because no matter where I am-whether in a quiet village courtyard or amidst Kolkata’s busting pandals-when I close my eyes and fold my hands, I whisper the same words I did as a little girl with my cousins:

Jai Durge. Protect us, Maa, Come home every year.