Of the Pujas.

At Durgapur, the Durga Puja - in a very weird "pun" - is very homely. Leaving behind the wastes that the city, that hopes to have blinding lights, is blind to was (as always) an enriching experience. None of the congestion of lovers blinded by the lights and yet marching on to parks that have ice-cream cups and jhal-muri papers strewn mercilessly around by more blind people.
No big pandals that loom over your figure with idols and encampments of justified nonsense. Money that could be used well elsewhere pours in on these monuments of colossal codswallop that all these Red Bengalis await for the entire year.
Oh sure, industrialisation is leaving the state for good - the economy of Pakistan, Kazakhstan and everywhere else is on the verge of recession, but hey! "THE DURGA PUJA IS ON! DID YOU KNOW THAT IT HAPPENS ONLY ONCE A YEAR?"
Wow. I did not know that.

Yet, in all this irritation that surfaces on my head there are a few tiny markers that catch my eye, and are invisible to everyone at this time of the year. Beautiful and minute monuments of faith that stick on you even as the entire world looks upon the mighty and monumental Durga. A wishing house that resided just in front of a small temple - people wished for success, good health, great money and offered these clay horses and elephants after the olden days.


And somehow, for me, any work of art that is not routinely destroyed in the name of ritual is a work of faith.