The Goddess Arrives

Small lights were being put up on the two storeyed building at the end of the street. They would be twinkling brightly every evening now for the next five days, she thought. Close by, a huge pandal was being decked up, last minute touches being added to it. A crispness in the air was clearly felt as she stood looking at the work in progress. She knew that before long the pandal would be ready for the goddess. The myriad colours of the pandal shone brightly in the autumn sun. There was the smell of festivity all around. She felt it strongly, well, she thought, every Bengali or for that matter everyone who lived in the city of joy, could feel it.

She had always waited for Durga Puja. Almost all Bengalis do, she thought. It is that time of the year when everyone is dressed in their new clothes, at their very best — a time to enjoy, to have fun, to be with dear ones, friends and family. As a child, this was a time of freedom from studies, too, a freedom from any kind of restrictions —no need to get back home early, to eat out every day. It had always made her feel so good about it. Moving from one pandal to another with her parents, holding her father’s hands, lest she would get lost, she remembered her delight at the sparkling lights, at the beautiful bedecked goddess, the daughter who made her annual sojourn from her husband in the hills, down to earth, to visit her parents along with her four children. That is, why, Ma said, when it was time for her to leave on Dashami, we all feel so sad — the daughter leaving her parents’ home all over again. Ma said, she would come back every year. That always made her so happy. It also made her look forward to new clothes, shoes, accessories and, yes, more pocket money. When she grew up, she could be with her friends, having fun — pandal hopping, adda and great food.

As she stood there watching all the preparations, memories came back. They always did at times like this. She missed Ma, she always missed her. Her eyes moved up to look at the sky. Ma is up there, Daadi used to tell her. She always believed that as a child. Even now, after all these years, whenever she thought of Ma, her eyes looked up. Daadi would tell her wonderful stories; she would make her favourite dishes, oil and comb her hair everyday. “If you oiled and combed your hair nicely everyday, you would have long hair. Your mother had long, black hair. When she sat on a stool, her hair reached down to the floor.” She listened to this and such other stories with great interest. Daadi, too, left her when she was in class seven. Bapi said she was with Ma now and they must be talking and sharing stories about us wherever they are. Bleary-eyed, she looked at Bapi, as they sat to eat. 

Things now were more prosaic, she thought, as she picked the clothes hung to dry and folded them. Six months ago, she married Kamal. They had known each other for some time now. They lived in neighbouring localities, attended the same college. That was where their acquaintance grew. They bonded over music and poetry. She was doing a major in physics and he was studying biological sciences. He was not conventionally handsome, was a bit pudgy. However, she liked him from the moment she met him. Kamal was popular in college, actively participated in all college programmes. At the College annual function, she had walked onto the stage to sing, that was when he spoke to her for the first time. “Do not be tensed, you will do just great,” he had said. It had brought a smile to her face. 

When Kamal got a job as a sales representative after his graduation, they decided to get married. She wanted to do her Masters, but he said there was no need for it. “Why would you be needing it, after all. I mean, one does not need a Masters to keep home and bring up children.” Bapi did not approve of it. He kept telling her that she needed to complete her Masters and get a job before she could marry and “settle down”. “Marriage can always wait,” he used to tell her. “It is more important to be independent,” he always said. She tried to tell this to Kamal; if he loved her so much, surely he could wait. He did not respond to it and they never spoke about it. For the next few days, there was no communication of any kind from Kamal — he did not answer her calls or responded to her messages. They did not meet, too. It troubled her, surely. 

She tried to say something, he continued, “I do not want my wife to go out and work. I am sure you will be happy at home. I will see to it that you are happy.” Lost in love, she believed him. Till that day, when she served him tea that was a trifle bitter. He threw the cup at her. It missed her a bit. She got scared. What was he trying to do? He came closer, held her in his arms, smiled at her and then, suddenly, held her plait forcefully, jerking her head violently, “I want a perfect cup of tea. Can’t you even do that?” She cried out, he was hurting her. “Babu, it hurts, please don’t hurt me.” He kept pulling her hair violently and then let her go with much force. She fell to the floor, dazed. It was just a month into their marriage.

As she sat on the floor that day — dazed, hurt, in pain — she let out a loud cry that seemed to rent the sky. The rest of the people in the house on the ground floor heard it all. No one uttered a word, no one reacted. She said nothing to anyone.She could see her ma-in-law at work in the kitchen, helping out and her sister-in-law there, too. No one looked at her as she came out of her room. She slowly moved past the kitchen, climbed the flight of stairs and opened the terrace door. Under the open sky, tears streamed down her cheeks. She stood there for a while and then slowly slumped down by the wall. God knows how long she sat there. 

After a couple of days, things went on as usual. Kamal spent time with her, took her out, brought her flowers. Nothing of the sort happened again. They socialised, too, but only with his friends, schoolmates. His friends came over, too, once in a while. She attended to them, spoke to them, and was cordial to them. She wanted to meet her friends, too, but Kamal would not hear of it. He allowed her to go and meet them, and insisted that he would accompany her. She felt it was not right; this was not how it should be. She needed to be on her own for sometime too. He kept calling her when she went out, even it was to the local market. At first, she thought it was concern that made him do so. Of late, she had begun to feel he was keeping a tab on her. 

With Durga Puja just a day away, she was looking forward to spending some time with her friends, too. They would do pandal-hopping as they did each year. Kamal would join them, too; it sure would be fun. When he got back from work, she told him of the plan. On Shasti, she would be going around the city, along with Kamal and her friends, visiting a few nice pandals. Kamal smiled and said yes, they sure would. Ratan, Suma, Mou and Krishanu came over at about 6 pm. Krishanu was parking the car close by and the rest of them climbed up the stairs and rang the doorbell. The help opened the door and asked them to sit down. “Didi and Dada would be soon out,” she said. Krishanu came in, too. From behind the closed door towards the south side, a few muffled noises and voices could be heard. Suma called out to her. It was all quiet. After about five minutes, the door opened and she came out crying, Kamal had sprained her hand as he tried to convince her that she was not to go out with her friends that evening. Tears welled down her cheeks. It was obvious she was in great pain; marks of his fingers were clearly visible. Kamal came out of the room, his head bore wounds, too. She said he hit his head against the window grill, telling her that if she went out he would further hurt himself. 

She looked at the aghast faces of Ratan, Suma, Mou and Krishanu and blurted out, “Help me!” Suma and Mou rushed out to help her. “He wants me to go with his brother and sister-in-law late this night. I told him we would be back by then and could surely go along. He refused to listen to me and kept turning and twisting my arm. This is not the first time he has done something like this.” As she said this, she began shaking; tears streamed down her cheeks. “This place is hell,” she said.