1315 hrs
The flames rise as the priest puts in a generous ladleful of ghee into the sacrificial fire. There are men in kurta pyjamas sitting next to the havan fire . The priest makes them repeat after him, "for peace , for wealth , for sons ". Seriously , I came for this !! My doubts rise , as the spiralling thick smoke .
1332 hrs
A newly made friend comes and sits next to me . "A van has been organised to take the faithful to the pandal on Guru Nanak Mission Chowk , was I interested ?" She whispers loudly into my ears , above the pundit's chants .She smells of new handloom saree , fresh from the looms of Bengal , perfume , and ghee smoke . I almost say yes . The I say"No". I too must have whispered loudly .She appears crest fallen . I wonder if I should go . But I am already late for many chores awaiting at home .
1350 hrs
The slow moving fan on the ceiling makes things worse. It scatters the column of smoke . It curls up into the courtyard , where cooks from Bengal stand stirring pots of chhola dal with narkel , fried rice , and frying large platters of begoon and potol bhaja.Their eyes smart. The courtyard is blessed with a mesh covered roof . The smoke dissipates into the blue autumn sky , and they thank the Durga Ma. Stirring , frying .
1416hrs
The kitchen hands are setting up folding tables and people are queueing up to take their places . I sigh . This is going to take a long time . I wonder if my kid is already back from school . Maybe they were right in refusing to come . The sweet acrid smell of ghee smoke is slowly filling the hall roof . i wonder how long the havan is going to take ? I glimpse my neighbour giving me a once over . I wear salwaar kameez , a northern dress. I wear my hair short , no sindur in partition . What am I ? She is baffled . So am I . I can't tell her that . So I turn to my pretty , red and white and gold friend , and show her a whatsapp forward of a Durga Pandal in Delhi . She beams , a smile wrinkling her sindoor smeared face .She whispers , loudly "Forward it to me ". A dark mountain of a lady , clad in a green saree , red and gold border , smelling of the east too, to my right , leans dangerously close , peeking . I show to her . She too demands "Send to me too."
1440 hrs
Medley of conch shells blow , ululations bring ladies to their feet , the smoke is rolling its choking tongue towards us . People step back . Cotton pallus cover eyes , mouth . I still donot have any phone numbers . First course , fried rice and dal has been served . A tall athletic man holding a basket of fried brinjals , salutes the Goddess with his basket and all , as he passes by . My new friend , having gone two paces ahead to do the "ululu", leans her thin frame back and whispers hoarsely into my ear "My husband , swimming instructor " , She gestures in the direction of the basket of fried brinjals , the distributor having been swallowed by the hungry crowd. She is still smiling . I take the opportunity and save her number . She tells me , and quickly turns her back to me .Two seconds later , her phone pings . She checks it and turns back ,beaming at me . Someone has started beating a drum . A white crest of feather shivers with each beat . An ancient tattoo. My friend is busy showing my forwarded pic to conch blowers and ululers.
1500 hrs
The green lady has picked up a bell . A brass plate and a wooden hammer , that go bang , bang . My heart thumps . Probably in my mouth . i don't remember such reaction in my childhood . Probably all those schooling /teaching years , in between . The gong sounds like the final school bell. Disappointments of home works to be corrected , and despair at classes having ended , surge back , needlessly . I scold my self . The green lady is tall .Taller than most of us . She is gasping. Smoke inhalation . She makes a beeline for outside . I follow her .
1515 hrs
The crowd has thinned somewhat , thanks to the thick smoke . The green lady takes huge gulps of sweet fresh air . I do the same . Her hands are still automatically clanging the bell. We are outside the hall ,twenty feet from the Goddess. I touch her hand. She stops . Smiles sheepishly. Her phone pings too . She checks it , my forwarded pic has reached her .She beams at me . I smile sheepishly back . Throngs of fed devotees emerge, hunting their slippers . It is our turn now . We return triumphantly.
comes up
what goes round
comes around
old clock ticking
what keeps the
heart beating
A mind thinking
A hand tinkering
My mom knitting
for neighbours and grand kids
For strangers and family
for kin , kith and all merrily
immovable wrists
uncontrollable bladder
She grows older and younger
cardigans and sweaters
She has decided she must give
of her gift , freely , be alive
On thanks she survives
While others await futilely
She knits furiously
While her legs do not
She has abundant hope
and has found pluck
in Two needles and a
ball of yarn.