I fancy whether violet and yellow agree with each other. But neon and sodium vapour flooded the air with a prehistoric mystery. The atmosphere was trembling with drumbeat as if waiting for something very special to happen. The rustling of sarees, exquisite smell of French deodorant made the expectation yet more tempting and luring. The blue-bronze sky made above head a Persian canopy studded with diamonds and emeralds. The evening looked like the queen of Babylonia who had died long ago but her spirit still haunts in the purity of beauty and aestheticism.
It was Asthami night. The spirit of festivity was at its peak. I was standing in a dark corner of our neighbourhood pandel. My expectant eyes were looking for her. But I could not find her. I wondered where she might be at that moment. Would she be that cruel not to allow my eyes to have a glimpse of her. Drums were beating at the rhythm of my heart beat. Now I understood what was the expectation that rent the air, what was about to happen. It was she who was going to grace the occasion with her majestic presence.
Such is the spirit of the Asthami night—when every bit of life is radiant with elegance and splendor. As if cosmic Mother let loose the heavenly beauty on everything. Even my next door girl looked so cute that I sneaked a surreptitious glance at her. The imagination of Vedic poet captives the cosmic motherhood in the idol of Ma Bhagabati Durga. An incessant flow of bliss was streaming down from her. Suddenly drum beat went mad. A tremor made its way through the crowd. Yes, she arrived. Her reddish purple saree caught the entire pandle in blaze. I bequeathed Mother Durga not to allow her pain my soul any more. May there be a little room for me in her otherwise indifferent cruel heart.
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