Ping-a-pujo

It's pujo once again. Time for new clothes, endless adda, bhog, the latest pop icon's night-long 'show' and feverish prayers for whatever each one desires. Five days of 24X7 fun, feasting and absolute freedom.

But that was when I was growing up in Bengal. When pujo was for real.

Today, living in a metro, pujo is a part-time festival spent sharing snaps via email and wishing friends a disgruntled 'happy pujo' via SMS. I feel even more disgusted to see the cousin in the USA attend a Durga Puja themed party on Skype. The young purohit, a replacement, my cousin justifies, sits with his BB, as he recites mantras from https://www.riti.com/. The site, reportedly, even offers a step-by-step guide for kalabou pujo.

'It's Mahalaya', a friend reminds me on Facebook. 'It's Shashthi in two days,' another tweets. 'One more day to go. Last min pujo shopping,' posts the third on Orkut.

I am even more sickened and shrink deeper into my nostalgic cocoon, digging deeper for childhood memories to keep the sanctity of the festival alive. How can you Skype the punshpanjali, I sneer, as an aunt dutifully carries the laptop to the pandal so that her son in London can collect a few divine grants.

The real pujo is no more, I complain, as my brother emails me the link to https://www.bangalinet.com/, where I can listen to the dhak.

But then, a miracle happens. It brings me back to faith, albeit virtually!

I call a friend and instead of the ringtone, Birendrakrishna Bhadra's Mahishashur Mardini greets me. As the famous baritone chokes me, instantly doing a flashback to misty mornings in Bengal and the crackle of AIR, I close my eyes and cry. Pujo is in my mind, my heart. And even the virtual world can't make it unreal.

The writer is News Editor, MiD DAY, Delhi