The evening air in College Tilla carried the soft, damp chill of a classic Agartala autumn.
Pradip Bhattacharjee stepped out onto his sprawling terrace garden. At sixty, the retired landscape architect spent most of his days tending to his plants. But tonight was Maha Sashthi, the night of Bodhon—the sacred awakening.
He had decided to host an impromptu “Light & Tea” gathering. Five of his closest childhood friends were coming up the stairs. All of them were retired now, their children—much like Pradip Babu’s son—settled far away in distant, foreign cities.
Pradip Babu had set a strict rule for the evening: no modern electric lights.
Instead, three old brass Hajak lanterns sat on low wooden stools. He pumped the brass canisters carefully. The mantles hissed and flared to life, casting a rich, warm, amber glow across the rooftop.
The light softened the edges of everything. It gleamed against the moist leaves of potted orchids, illuminated golden marigolds, and danced through the delicate fronds of bamboo ferns. Gradually, the terrace transformed into a glowing, magical sanctuary.
“Pradip, you crazy old man!” cheered Sukamol, stepping onto the roof first. “Hajak lights? I haven’t seen one of these since our school days!”
Soon, all six of them were seated on cane chairs. A large pot of spiced cha sat in the middle, steaming gently. They poured the hot tea into clay cups, the warmth of the earthen cup soothing their palms.
Laughter rose into the autumn night. They shared hilarious memories from their youth—a time when life was easy, full of silly adventures and big dreams.
They recalled sneaking out past bedtime to watch Jatra theatre troupes perform under canvas tents.
They remembered buying cheap paper trumpets near the Puja pandals and inhaling the sweet, dizzying scent of Shiuli flowers on misty mornings.
In a sudden pause, Sukamol stood up and asked, “When did you guys last see real Kash Phool?”
As the others paused, trying to recall, Sukamol touched his chest and announced in a triumphant tone, “I saw the swaying of those resilient stems three years ago … in a non-descript village in Khowai!”
“Bravo, bravo”, Pradip Babu said in lighter tone.
For hours, they were no longer retired and lonely men with creaking joints and quiet homes. They were boys again—carefree and full of mischief. The amber glow of the Hajak lanterns seemed to burn away the decades, whisking them back through time.
Around midnight, a gentle autumn breeze picked up from the direction of the Howrah River, whistling softly through the bamboo ferns. In the distance, the muffled rhythm of Dhak drums slowly faded into the night.
Gradually, the laughter slowed. A heavy, unspoken weight crept into the silence.
|You may also like Bengali story on Durga Puja: উৎসবের আলো-আঁধারে কল্লোলিনী কলকাতা: রূপকথা ও বাস্তবতার শারদোৎসব |
Nostalgia turned quiet. Sukamol stared down into his empty clay cup. Debabrata gazed silently into the glowing mantle of the nearest Hajak. They thought of their empty rooms downstairs. They thought of lost friends, departed elders, and children living in distant time zones. The quiet losses of the past settled over the terrace like a cool blanket of fog.
Noticing the shift, Pradip Babu smiled warmly and clapped his hands once to break the spell.
“Listen,” Pradip Babu said, his voice firm yet gentle. “Tonight is Sashthi. Let us stay right here in the present, no more in the sad part of the past and enjoy this moment, forgetting everything else.”
He leaned forward, looking each of his old friends in the eye. “Tomorrow is Saptami. I say we spend the entire day together. No plans, no schedules. We will wander through the town, eat spicy Biryani at Post Office Chowmuhani, and hop from pandal to pandal like we used to. What do you say?”
|You may also like: The Silent Wail of Maa Durga: When Prakriti Weeps Amidst Festive Joy |
Debabrata Babu quipped, Don’t forget to take powerful pentaprazol tab and will ensure adequate supply of liquid digestive gel.
All laughed but Pradip Babu’s idea caught fire instantly. Their eyes brightened.
“Yes!” Sukamol nodded. “Just like boys again!”
Together, they began planning their route, mapping out every alley of Agartala with boundless, youthful excitement.
Suddenly, a loud, piercing ring shattered the peaceful air.
Trrrring… Trrrring…
Pradip Babu blinked. The sound was harsh and metallic.
He opened his eyes.
The cool autumn breeze was gone. The smell of spiced tea and damp marigolds vanished.
He was sitting up in his bed. The room was small and dimly lit by a faint blue nightlight in the corner.
There was no terrace, no Hajak lanterns, and no friends sitting around him in cane chairs.
Beside his pillow, his mobile phone was vibrating on the nightstand. The screen glowed bright, displaying an incoming video call.
Caller ID: Toronto.
His son was calling from across the ocean to wish him a happy Durga Puja.
Pradip Babu sat quietly on the edge of his bed for a long moment, his heart beating slowly in the stillness.
He found himself in a stark contrast – slowly he realised garden terrace, hajak lights – all were just a dream.
Yet, strangely, the warmth of the Hajak light still lingered behind his eyes. The laughter of his old friends still echoed softly in his ears.
He did not feel disappointed. He felt full, deeply cherishing those precious, fleeting moments before the phone had rung.
After answering the call, Pradip Babu gently folded his hands together. He looked up toward the ceiling, a faint, contented smile gracing his face.
“Durga Maa, hey Dashaproharanodaarinee,” he whispered into the stillness, “I am grateful that you let me feel the joy of childhood again—even if it was just a dream.”
