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The camphorous smoke of the dhunachi
Became one with the acrid fumes from the furnace.
The bright lights on the streets
Looked mellow in comparison to the fire of the pyre.
The joyous cries of the pandal hopping crowd
Was lost in the wails of the mourners.

Outside, the child happily perched on his father's shoulders making merry.
Carefree couples holding hands in joyous abundance.
Friends excitedly chattering and frolicking in the festive gaiety.
The poet busy writing paeans for the Puja souvenir.

Inside, the child trying to wake her mother from her eternal slumber
Why do we need to burn her down? Was his frenzied cry.
The husband having lost the battle which they had fought so hard together
Kept murmuring and repeating : Her pain was unbearable, good that she is gone.
The friend who has lost her companion cried inconsolably
With whom shall she share her aspirations and anxieties, the joys and sorrows.
The dilettante poet who has lost his muse stared silently
Devoid of inspiration, engulfed by vacuum, his pen stuttering.

The revelry of Navami melted into the sadness of Dusshera
The colourful clothes faded into white starched dhotis
As the crowds outside jostled and surged
The loneliness inside left me shattered.
What a night of contrast it was
A night not to be forgotten.


05 October 2022, Dusshera