Chapter Text
The oil lamps nearby flickered with a small gust of autumnal breeze, casting shadows on Kartik’s hands. His Ardhanarishwar tattoo almost looked like a living, breathing entity. Kartik rested his head on Aman’s shoulder and closed his eyes.
Although they were situated a bit further away from the epicentre of the festivities, it didn’t feel so. With his eyes closed, Kartik was hyperaware of his surroundings.
The lights around him, distinguishable even with closed eyelids, brightened and flickered due to the constant movement of a river of people. The fragrance of shiuli blossoms tickled his senses (he had seen a basket of it somewhere near the mandap ), which was remarkable in itself since the air around them was thick with remnants of the smell of coconut-husk smoke and jasmine incense. The shiuli and smoke rather create a unique scent, Kartik thought, as he took a quick breath.
Conversations rustled in the backdrop, a constant hum of fluent, melodic Bengali interspersed with broken, heavily accented Hindi. Most of the nuances and meaning escaped Kartik’s understanding, but after spending the entire day in the company of these people, the language had begun to feel familiar, similar to the way the taste of bhuna khichuri would induce familiarity.
It had been Aman’s idea to take “a little breather” before they joined the others. Aman had felt Kartik could do with a little break after all the excitement. But strangely, Kartik didn’t feel tired.
On the contrary, he felt...energised.
Kartik chuckled softly into the fabric of Aman’s teal kurta. It seemed like he was yet to withdraw from the trancelike mood he had been in ever since he stepped into the mandap an hour ago.
Kartik eyes fluttered open just as Aman brushed away a few errant strands of hair, clumped together with beads of sweat, from his forehead. Aman didn’t say anything, his fingers just lingered on Kartik’s head.
The atmosphere, though still festive and celebratory, had begun to smell of melancholia- the sense of an ending. The earlier firm foundations, tying celebration, community and joy together was on the way to getting disintegrated into wisps of grey, leaving them with a deep-seated sense of farewell.
Neither of them felt the need to punctuate such an impasse with meaningless words.
...
...
Aman’s mind drifted as Kartik rested his head against his shoulder. His fingers stroked patterns in Kartik’s dishevelled hair. He had settled down with his husband in one corner of the pandal, eyes wandering over to the ground peppered with flower petals and sprinkled with the red of vermillion. People moved about barefoot, their shoes strewn haphazardly in one corner. Smoke arose from the earthen pots kept in a row not far from where they sat. The embers still glowed orange-red in the coconut husk laden pots, as Aman watched the smoke curl its fingers around the evening sky and disappear against a backdrop of a multitude of running lights.
Red bordered, white saree clad ladies hovered in their vicinity, fetching this and that, talking amongst themselves, taking selfies of their smiles, white teeth interrupting the post sindur khela smudges of vermillion on their cheeks.
(One of the smiling aunties had handed them both bowls of payesh and shondesh and hurried off before he could come up with excuses.)
But Aman’s mind was elsewhere.
This modest pujo pandal, held together by bamboo scaffolding and the spirit of a small Bengali community in one small lane of Ganesh Nagar was a microcosm of its own. The organised chaos of the venue was a true reflection of the celebration of life as they knew it. In spite of being a bit apprehensive at first, Aman was glad they let their friend Nachiketa (or Chiku, as they called her) drag them into the festivities, which was nothing short of a grandiose spectacle, collapsed and compacted to fit this small part of the colony in East Delhi which housed more Bengalis than average.
The dhakis were taking a break from their routine. Aman watched as one of Chiku’s cousins (ironically called Guddu ) tinkered with the sound system until strains of Rabindrasangeet emanated from the speakers. All the members under the roof of the pandal let out a joyous exclamation. Aman couldn’t help but smile a little; their jubilation was quite contagious.
Aman cannot remember the last time Kartik and he had felt safe in a community setting like this (barring the Tripathi house, but that’s another story). The best part of this day for Aman had been to see Kartik unwind. Truly unwind, let go, and take part in the festivities with everyone. It hadn’t mattered that they were not Bengalis, they had been swept into the celebration, and how!
He was beginning to see the wisdom in Chiku’s words from earlier (“ Maa Durga belongs to everyone, Aman. ” )
His reverie and self-reflection got interrupted as Kartik abruptly stood up. He held out a hand for Aman. Hand in hand, the two of them made their way inside the mandap, to catch a last proper glimpse of Maa Durga before she made her way back to Kailash.
The dhakis had taken up their barrel-shaped drums again. Long, thin drumsticks slapped the drum rhythmically. Aman glanced at the Durga idol, and at the people who had begun to dance.
The repetitive drum beat was imitated by feet and elbows in an eruption of joyful movement.
So many feet simply could not have danced in mourning.
Maybe there was a little bit of cheer in departure too.