Mahalaya Chants Whispers a Son’s Silent Sorrow for His Ma
Agartala Sep 22: As the soft glow of dawn illuminated the Agartala skyline on this Mahalaya morning, September 22, 2025, Alok Sen, now 59, drifted once more down the tender lanes of memory. His nostalgic journey carried him back to his childhood, when he, his mother, and others would gather to listen to the soul-stirring Mahishasura Mardini recitation.. While listening Alok would frequently fall asleep which would invite an affectionate prod from his ‘Ma’.
It was the 1970s, and the spirit of Basanta (autumn) still lingered vibrantly in Jolaibari, a humble village nestled in South Tripura.
During Mahalaya, the dawn air turned cool, kissed by sparkling dew on delicate Shiuli flowers, while a gentle fog draped the vast stretches of land in a mystical embrace.
The air was crisp, carrying a whisper of the approaching Durga Puja, but it paled against the vivid warmth of his childhood recollections.
And several decades have passed. Alok is now settled in Agartala. Sipping his tea on the balcony, he tuned his radio app on his phone to the familiar broadcast, the voice of Birendra Krishna Bhadra rising like an old friend from the speakers – Ashwiner sharodo prate, beje uthechhe aloko manjir….
Yet, it was not just the chants that stirred him; it was the flood of nostalgia, amplified by the years, pulling him back to those winter dawns in Jolaibari where time seemed to stand still.
In his mind’s eye, the scene bloomed with an intensity that time had only deepened, like a sepia-toned photograph etched into his soul.
As the Birendra Kishore’s recitation continued, he was like day dreaming of his childhood days. The village enveloped in a thick, ethereal fog that softened the edges of the world, turned the cluster of houses with sloping roofs into dreamlike silhouettes against the pastel sky.
Almost bare trees reached skeletal branches toward the heavens, as if in silent prayer, while the ground, held the chill of the night.
Like many other families, his relatives gathered in the open courtyard, for never-to-miss ritual Mahishasur Mardini that marked the invocation of Durga – but for young Alok, it was the cocoon of his mother’s affectionate presence during the chanting.
There she was, his mother, seated on the low charpoy bed covered in that cherished, intricately woven red-and-gold rug—its patterns a tapestry of faded motifs that spoke of generations past.
Her beige shawl draped over her shoulders, warding off the biting winter air, and the red Sindoor on her forehead catching the first hints of sunrise like a flame of unwavering faith.
In her hands, a transistor radio with its antenna piercing the mist, crackled to life with the Mahishasura Mardini recitation.
The air filled with the resonant baritone, verses of power and devotion mingling with the distant lowing of cattle and the subtle rustle of leaves, creating a symphony that wrapped around the soul.
Around her, the family formed a loose circle of quiet reverence. The children—his cousins, and others—sat cross-legged on the rug, their eyes were wide with a mix of awe and drowsiness.
But Alok, the boy of eight in this amplified memory, was always the one drawn closest to his mother. He lay nestled against her side, his head pillowed on the soft fold of her sari, inhaling the unique and comforting scent of her mixed with the underlying warmth of maternal love that no winter could chill.
Clad in a striped sweater and pants, curled instinctively toward her, one arm draped over her lap while her hand rhythmically patting his back in a lullaby without words. Alok’s eyelids would grow heavy.
‘Baba, Ghumiyo na’ (Don’t fall asleep, my little one), she’d murmur softly. To Alok, it was more than a heavenly and ethereal feelings which he still cherishes.
In the tapestry of sound, most of which were beyond his grasp at that time, all Alok could sense was the power, strength and grace of a ‘Ma’. He would clasp the edge of his mother’s sari as she would murmur with folded hands, “Jago, Ma Tumi Jago” (Awake, O Mother awake). A unspeakable vibrancy blended with gratitude would feel his little heart.
Those moments were pure magic—the fog lifting slightly as the sun rose, casting a golden hue over the scene, amplifying the sense of timeless connection, of a world where evil was banished and love eternal.
Fifteen years after her passing in 2010, Alok still miss the warmth with a deeper intensity, a nostalgic ache that bloomed fuller with each Mahalaya.
Closing his eyes, Alok can still see the radiant glow that emitted from her face after the chanting was over.
On the day of Mahalaya on Sunday, Alok sitting with his phone on an easy chair alone looked to the horizon. Unknowingly, he folded his hands and offer Pranam, and in almost inaudible sound whisper, Ma, tumi esho!
