The looking forward is the fest.
The days of buying little things:
The sesame, the cashew nuts,
The raisins (finished; bought again),
The tempting packs of powdered milk,
The ghee, and more of sesame,
The pair of freshly tailored clothes,
The fairy lights, the longer nights,
The who-will-get-the-idol fights.
The early morning “proper bath”,
The sun-dried hair that’s “proper combed”,
The not-till-pooja hunger pangs,
The always-falling brass’s bangs,
The flower lady (late again),
The fear of gaining weight again.
And then it’s over in an hour.
The ding-ding of the prayer bells,
The clap-clap of the cymbal pairs,
The blah-blah of the mantra-man,
The hee-hee of the kiddie gang.
And though it lingers for a day,
And sometimes longer than a day,
No more is it a festival.
The hopping to the next pandal
Provides diminishing returns,
Alongwith sudden need for rest.
The looking forward was the fest.
Minakhi Misra 