Durga puja in Seattle is a short weekend-only affair. It is the one afternoon I get to wear a saree, enter a space full of countless familiarities, and feel the most Bengali I possibly can till the same day next year. The sound of the dhak, shonkho, and hulu, competing with unapologetically loud Bengali chatter, along with the sight of people dressed in full regalia as they regard each others outfits with appreciation (and oftentimes envy), makes me feel like I could be in any bustling pujo pandal in India. The smells are a whole other story. The camphor and incense match many a memory in my mind, while the smell of ghee, mishti, and khichuri bhog sharply kick my drool response into action.

Then of course, there is Ma Durga looking at all of us as if to say, “Yes, dear over-excited humans, celebrate all the hard work that I’ve just done by killing this monstrous demon while I gracefully balance myself on a lion. Oh, and don’t forget to eat my share of food, seeing that all of my ten hands are occupied anyway. Also, aren’t we lucky that my 4 children are so well-behaved? Can you imagine if they weren’t? Go on now, enjoy yourselves!” She appears to mean it though, as her clay incarnation smiles down on us with loving kindness, with metta.

I have never been religious, however, I can’t deny the sense of goodwill and community that pujo fosters. I also love the food. As a child, I would look the other way and stick my nose up at the humble khichuri and labra bhog, wanting more exciting things like chilli chicken and fish fry. However, today, halfway across the world I find myself craving khichuri and labra bhog like I do my mother’s hugs. Once a year this this wish is fulfilled and I do no lie when I say it is only the opportunity to wear a saree and eat bhog that pulls me to to pujo in Seattle every year.

I absolutely love wearing tussar silk. I also love bright block colours. Obviously, this magenta beauty is particularly special. It was the first saree my mother ever bought me. Any others I’d worn before that were stolen from her wardrobe so they didn’t really count. I was an undergraduate at the time, so this was a rite of passage. Somewhat. I remember going along to a saree exhibition with her, bored out of my mind, till my eyes fell on this piece and I couldn’t look away. I suggested that my mother buy it so I could borrow it now and then, but she said she wasn’t looking for something so plain. She suggested instead that I get it for myself. Really? Me? My very own saree? The idea blew my mind as I considered it with much seriousness. I let her buy it for me, of course, and still remember feeling pretty special like I’d entered some secret saree-owners club, as I clutched the package tightly on the auto ride back home.