“Don’t be shy. Have some food, water and enjoy,” said one of them. It has been a year. I never knew anyone’s name except a few. The people in the pandal knew me but not my name. I am referred to as the “Baccha Meye (little girl)” who is always offered food packets and checked upon every time I leave for the office in the morning and return home in the evening. 

“Don’t light the diyas here. We have to take care of the safety inside the pandal,” remarked Joy Uncle while attending to people and asking them whether they had the prasad or not. Half of his kurta is drenched in sweat. I stand inside the pandal, asking Thakurmoshai to give me something that I can keep for a lifetime, just like my saree.

The thakurmoshai, or the priest, is an old man who is trying to bring the mike near his mouth. The married women are complaining; we couldn’t hear what you were chanting amidst the beats of the dhak purifying my body.  “Only 19 minutes left before the Puja starts, Thakurmoshai,” said Joy Uncle.  All of us are waiting for the puja to begin, but it is of no use. The women are dressed in red and white sarees with red sindoor on their foreheads.

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