অষ্টমীAshtami

The dhakis come in on the early local trains from the villages, their drums wrapped in plastic against the dust. They set them down on the forecourt at Sealdah and wait to be hired.

Pandal committees walk between the rows. A dhaki plays a few beats to show what his hands can do. Money is discussed. Somebody's uncle knows somebody's cousin.

Some of these men play for the same para year after year. For five days, the city will belong to their wrists.

Ma has been up since four. She has not eaten, and she will not, until the anjali is done.

The new sari is white with a red border, still stiff from the shop. The children's clothes are new too, and a little too big, so they will fit next year.

At the pandal the priest reads the mantra one line at a time. Hundreds of voices follow, half a beat behind. Then the flowers fly towards the goddess: marigold, hibiscus, bel leaves. Three rounds.

Then luchi. Finally, luchi.

Nobody asks who you are in the bhog queue. You stand in line with a family from the next lane, two college boys and a couple visiting from Delhi, and you are all handed the same thing.

Khichuri, yellow and soft. Labra. A fried slice of brinjal. Sweet tomato chutney. Payesh, if you are lucky.

You eat with your fingers, sitting in a row, and it is the best meal of the year. Every Bengali who has moved abroad has tried to cook this khichuri at home. It never tastes quite the same.

The puja is held across the exact moment Ashtami ends and Navami begins: the last 24 minutes of one day and the first 24 of the next. The almanac fixes the moment. Some years it falls at noon. Some years, in the middle of the night.

108 earthen lamps are lit, one after another, until the floor before the goddess is a field of small flames. 108 lotuses are offered. The dhak plays faster. The crowd presses closer.

Hear the Sandhi Puja, 40 seconds

The dhaki from Sealdah has been playing since dawn. His wrists ache. He plays harder.

The aarti lamp rises in the priest's hand, tier upon tier of flame, and circles the goddess. A boy beats the kashor in time. Somewhere at the back, a conch.

You feel the dhak in your chest before you hear it.

Coconut husk and dhuno resin smoulder in a clay pot. A man lifts it above his head and begins to dance to the dhak.

Then another. Then a woman with one in each hand.

The smoke fills the pandal. Eyes water. Nobody minds.

The lanes are still full. Families drift from pandal to pandal until their feet give up. A roll from a street stall. One more pandal, because the one in the next para is said to be the best this year.

And somewhere in Bangalore, or London, or New Jersey, someone is awake at an odd hour, watching a pandal on a phone screen, smelling dhuno that isn't there.