Fortunately,
all the girls turn in the same direction. We move our feet in the same way and
step down into the green room one by one, being careful with our sarees as we
hear the classical Bengali song stop. We hear a huge round of applause followed
by the comparer’s voice complimenting us. I see my mother and aunt coming into
the green room. I immediately apologize to everybody and ask if I just did a
big blunder. All the girls and I look towards our aunt, who taught us the
whole dance, hoping a negative reply. Our aunt looks carefully into our tiny eyes,
which have coated magic powder and liners all over, and gives a bright smile.
She laughs joyfully in a way that her deep dimples cover half of her bubbly
cheeks. We are now told that we looked like angels as we swayed our arms, with
red coating towards the fingers, on the stage. Now the aunt comes to me, she
keeps her hand, embellished with a thick red bangle, on my shoulder
tenderly. She happily tells me something, which makes me feel very good.
“Child, it doesn’t matter at all from where you
led the line off stage. What matters is how you did it. And I am glad that I am
getting the chance to be the first one to tell you that you did your job flawlessly,
may be beyond that.”
I feel butterflies in my stomach. I know the
adrenaline just overflowed into my body. A wide smile spreads through my face
and I run to my mother. This time, I almost trip over due to my excitement but
my mom grabs me by the left hand and I am saved. I
tell her about the complement I have just received enthusiastically. And so, I
get a sound sleep at night.
It is about eight in the morning and the sun shines bright, touching the skin faintly.
A cool wind blows, making the weather pleasant and the air pure to breathe in. But as I proceed towards the Pandal, I find no
Pandal. All the set up is taken off. The murti still stands there, as charming
as it has always been. All women take rounds around it and worship our Deity.
They make Ma Durga eat sweets and apply maroon tika on her forehead. We all
once again tap our feet together on the beats of dhaki. I know that this is the
last time in this year that I am getting this joy. So I dance with everyone
energetically, feeling joy, both bitter and sweet. About fifteen to eighteen
minutes later, all the women come down from the murti stage with thalis in
their hands filled with sweets, some leaf, sindoor and many more things. They
begin to apply orange- red colored sindoor on each other’s
faces. They smear the dry sindoor with their hands on each other’s neck, arms,
forehead, etc. I highly confuse this moment with holi. I ask everyone quickly
if today is holi too. As I do so, one of the aunts brushes a long path of
sindoor starting from my nose to my forehead. She stuffs a big, white sweet
into my mouth forcefully and everyone laughs. Once again, I get to face
everyone’s amusement. Everyone tells me that this whole thing is called
‘sindoor khela’ which literally means playing with sindoor. I accept it to be
like holi, the difference is that it’s just played among married women and only
sindoor can be used. I ask my aunt why she applied it on my face. She laughs
again, and as she does, the sindoor on her face falls on her saree a little,
making it red too. She squeezes my cheeks, coloring them as well, and says that
it is a way of blessing me. I find it very interesting and go to every aunt and
my mom too, and wait for them to bless me. Eventually, as I see my reflection,
I find myself totally colored in red. I am glad to find that I am unrecognizable
(if someone ignores my size). We all are exceedingly spirited and delighted. Everyone
clicks pictures in which I smile continuously, making my cheeks hurt. Soon,
trucks and buses arrive. All the murtis are kept on trucks but the point when
my heart actually pinches is the moment when Ma Durga’s murti is picked up and
taken to the truck. People shout out joyfully that next year ma will come
again. I join them and yell at the top of my voice. The dhaki is played at its
best. I ask someone if it is necessary for Ma Durga to leave every year. The
person replies, “If she doesn’t leave, then how will she come the next year?”
I find the answer perfect.
So we all come together to say good-bye to our Goddess only to wait for her to
come back next year.
“Ashche Bochhor Aabaar Hobe”
