Where Autumn Whispers Home

It’s autumn again, I can see October slowly creeping into my bedroom. The warm yellow sunlight softening the lingering ache of my poor heart. The smell of kaash is gradually slipping into a faint memory, and the blue sky with the fluffy white clouds evokes innocent childhood memories.

The marigolds and hibiscus have started to bloom on my balcony as the aprajita wilts. For me, as a bengali girl living outside her native town, these are the tiny reminders of the teary farewell of Durga and the homecoming of Kali. The songs on my mother’s radio have changed, and so have I.

Pujo is not the same anymore. Life seems to slow down during these days; unlike the past, when festivals passed away in the blink of an eye. Oh! It used to be a great deal to me. The vivid stalls full of decorative items, crackers and the excitement of having new colors for my rangoli (which I never succeeded in completing) to buying at least one unique firecracker every year. Those were the days when I used to have an awfully tremendous amount of energy; miles away from my current state.

Despite it all, growing up along diyas, rangolis, and those cute fairy lights, Diwali to me has always been Kali Pujo. Tracing back to my childhood, (which I believe was the prime time of my life) it was one of those few days in the year when I was allowed to be up at midnight.

People say they are terrified of the Goddess Kali, but to me, she is the epitome of serenity. Her big kohl-lined eyes radiating divine beauty and ethereal charisma is what my eyes, full of piety, eagerly wait all year long. Kali’s thick black curls falling to her waist, the garland of skulls she gracefully styles, her feet decorated with red alta, the motherly yet fierce look that she carries; such a beauty to behold.

Kali perfectly signifies the storm in the peace and the light in the dark.

But as the first crack of the dawn melts the ink of the night, and the loud echoes of mantra gives way to silent streets, faded and faint lines of alpana on every threshold, the doused lamps and chillness in the air gently remind of the farewell of Kali, giving a fleeting moment of joy and blessings to last a year long.

There is a strange stillness, not just outside but within. But I find a lullaby benevolently wrapping the heart giving it the warmth it longed for. The remnants of celebration are scraped off from the concrete floors, the dhak is wrapped and the idol immersed, back to the earth where it was birthed from. The comforting memories however stay behind, in the folds of my heart glowing like the fairy lights left on after midnight.

Life picks up its pace but somewhere deep within, the colors of my rangoli, my sparkle stained fingers, the golden hush of the midnight hour and the red colored feet of Kali are safely tucked within. The season changes, the distance from home widens, so does the loneliness, but in the continuing rhythm of my breath and subtle fierceness of my prayers, the Goddess always finds her way back.