Festival Nostalgia

October rolls around and brings with it the Durga Puja— my heart rejoices in anticipation, every year. And every year, my mind becomes sick with bittersweet nostalgia, without fail, thinking of you.

It’s not fair to me, the fact that your memories are now so closely woven with the one festival I look forward to. This is the first time I haven’t gone back home for the Puja. This is the first time I haven’t seen you during the Puja.

I remember, on the first day of Puja, shashthi— I visited the pandal next to your home, and you visited the pandal next to mine. It’s an exchange of worlds that occurs every year. Not this year. I could only see your pictures and laugh a derisive laugh because you are closer to my home than I am right now.

I remember, on the second day of Puja, saptami— both of us sang at the annual singing competition in our hometown. Not this year; this time, it was just you. I haven’t heard you in so long, I am scared of slowly forgetting your voice.

I remember, on the third day of Puja, ashtami— you were done with anjali before I was, so you came to visit my side of our hometown again. I remember feeling your eyes on me for so long (you had never seen me in a saree before). Not this year; this time, I wore a kurta. And I saw you leave a like on my Instagram story.

I remember, on the fourth day of Puja, navami— you watched me dance with the dhunuchi, starstruck, speechless. It was always me looking at you and so rarely this— you looking at me. Not this year; I stayed in my dorm room the whole day. Both of us went out with our families at night. Your father and mine are friends and I remember them joking about how they would get us married if it was up to them.

I remember, on the last day of Puja, dashami— both of us went to the goddess’s visarjan and I accidentally bumped into you, and you spilt sindoor all over me. Your name means silver but there had been so many golden moments between us, and this was another— you laughing at the mess I was, the mess you’d made of me while apologising anyway.

October slips through my fingers, and so do you.

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