Fragile

Its in the texture of the air. In the colour of the flowers. In the way something green gold saffron shimmers as you turn your head.

Its in the memories. The taste of the food. In the echoes of the dhaak, the kaanshor, the bells...

Its in the faces that don't change. And yet age every year. Its in the dreams that gradually shed leaves.

Its in the hopes that were immersed in the river last year. And in the emotions that resurface alll over again.

Its in the nostalgia that we weave even as we speak, aware even in the present that we are making memories.

Its in the dust on the face, the ache in the ankles, the discomfort of the steel chairs, the iron buckets and baskets of fries. Its in the voice that rings out loud in a dining hall full of people, its in the smoke and the incense and the embers that burn in places other than earthenware lamp holders.

It makes me fragile. This place, this space, this ritual that lives itself out not in geography, not in history, but in a place suspended somewhere in between the two.

Durga Pujo. Yet again.

Golden goddess, rest my heart.