When a Housing Complex Becomes a Para- Subho Bijoya

I have always loved Durga Puja in Kolkata.

In fact, I enjoy the days leading up to Puja almost as much as the festival itself. The monsoon begins to retreat, the weather gets a little more pleasant and somewhere along the way I spot my first kash phool. For me, that is when the countdown really begins.

Kolkata begins preparing too.

Pandals start taking shape. Shopping becomes increasingly frantic. Traffic becomes increasingly impossible. And yet, somehow, there is so much excitement around that even the chaos becomes easier to forgive.

Over the years, I have gone pandal hopping at ridiculously early hours to beat the crowds, stayed out through the night when Puja had technically not even begun, and spent hours looking at the extraordinary creativity that appears across the city for just a few days. I have always been fascinated by the imagination, artistry and sheer effort that go into creating something so elaborate, knowing how temporary it will be.

But as much as I enjoy the pandals and the city during Puja, some of my favourite moments happen in our complex.

There is the simple pleasure of dressing up. I love wearing saris during Puja — choosing one, rediscovering jewellery and having a perfectly good reason to dress up even if I am only going a short distance from home.

And then, inevitably, there is food.

Food and Durga Puja have always gone together for me. The afternoon bhog is something I look forward to every year. Then there are the food stalls, the snacks and all the other things that somehow need to be eaten simply because it is Puja.

At our housing complex, by the time all of these have been accounted for, our kitchens more or less take their annual Puja holiday.

I am not complaining.

But what I enjoy most is what happens to the complex itself.

For most of the year, we live our individual lives behind our individual doors. We pass one another, exchange hellos, stop for the occasional conversation and carry on with our day.

During Puja, everyone seems to emerge.

There is anjali and there are the ceremonies. Children run around. The afternoon bhog brings everyone together and conversations continue long after the meal is over.

And then there are the evenings.

The aarti, with the dhakis playing, is one of my favourite moments. There is something about the sound of the dhakduring aarti that changes the atmosphere completely. However many times I hear it, it still feels special.

There are rehearsals and cultural programmes, food stalls and adda. Someone pulls up another chair. Someone calls out to a friend. Someone you haven't seen for a while suddenly reappears.

And people have time for one another.

For those few days, a housing complex stops feeling like a collection of apartments.

It becomes a para.

Last year, our daddy was part of all of this.

He would come down in his kurta-pajama and sit through the Puja ceremonies. He enjoyed the programmes and the afternoon bhog. But perhaps what he loved most was sitting with his tea and catching up with some of his friends. And we would, of course, bring him something from the food stalls to enjoy.

Daddy loved Puja. And he loved this complex.

This year, all those familiar things will happen again.

The ceremonies will take place. The dhakis will play during the evening aarti. Friends will gather. Bhog will be served. The programmes will begin and the food stalls will open.

But daddy won't come down.

And we will miss him terribly.

Perhaps that is something I understand about Puja a little differently this year. So much about it feels familiar, and yet no two Pujas are ever quite the same.

Every Puja, some of the children seem to have grown up when we weren't looking. New families arrive. Some familiar faces are no longer around.

And still, Puja comes around again.

The saris come out. The dhak sounds. There is bhog, adda, laughter and conversation. People who have been busy with their own lives find time for one another again.

And for those few days, our housing complex becomes a para.