The sky outside was covered with dark grey and ominous clouds. Blaring horns, children running through the streets, and hawkers shouting at the top of their voices; it was a complete mayhem. But my inner world was a stark contrast, painted in hues of spirituality and peace.
Six days remained until the auspicious day of Navratri. Sculptors were busy giving final touches to the idols of Goddess Durga. Each idol was unique, the colours, the drapes, the radiant smiles, the gleaming eyes were all crafted with meticulous care. At night, when the world slept, the idols came alive. They stretched, lay down to rest after standing all day, danced enthusiastically, talked endlessly, and vanished back into stillness as the first rays of the sun kissed the earth.
Who am I? I am a pandal, built from bamboo sticks, draped in plastic and fabric. A month ago, Lord Ganesha kept me company. Now, it is Maa Durga. In a few days, they will leave with great fanfare. I relish the dhol, the music, the air colourful with gulal, and the joyous laughter of devotees. But afterwards, only silence remains. And sometimes, it hurts.
That evening, the sculptors packed up and left. The ground fell silent. I closed my eyes.
Around midnight, I heard a cry.
“Kaka, please leave me!” a girl pleaded.
“You’re so beautiful, child! Come, sit on my lap,” a man slurred.
A faint light fell on his face. It was Sushil, a sculptor, heavily drunk. The girl was Tarunya. I had seen her before, sometimes with her father.
Sushil’s eyes were filled with lust. My heart pounded with rage. I wanted to hit him hard but my hands were tied.
He covered her mouth, pinned her down. She struggled, but he began unbuttoning himself.
Then Tarunya whispered tearfully, “Maa…”
All around me, the idols’ eyes turned fiery red. Their anger vibrated through the air. I could feel the heat.
“Thud!” A loud sound echoed.
Sushil froze. “Who’s there?” he shouted.
A sword clanged to the ground.
Then a conch shell fell.
Terrified, Sushil sped into the darkness.
Tarunya, who was trembling, crawled toward a large Durga idol and lay beneath it. Soon, she drifted into sleep.
By morning, the sculptors returned. Tarunya’s father, one of them, was shocked to find her there. She was still in deep sleep. He scooped her up in confusion and left. Work resumed.
Sushil who had arrived later was relieved when no one questioned him. He picked up the red paint and a ladder. He began painting a large bindi on Maa’s forehead.
I wanted to stop him. How dare he touch Maa with his dirty hands ?
Suddenly, Maa’s eyes flickered.
A scream tore through the air. Sushil fell from the ladder, from nearly ten feet. The paint container crashed onto his face.
He was no more.
I smiled.
For the first time, Ravana had died before Dussehra !
