Durga Puja

Today marks, my first Durga Puja or is it "Pujo", without you. Suddenly, I have no one in the house, obsessing about the ten day festival. I no longer have to tell Shahnaz didi (my cook) to make aaloo bhaja and khichuri. I no longer have someone craving for chops, shingara and rolls. The fact that I don't have YOU anymore, sucks.

I don't have to go pandal hopping this year, I don't have to endure my annual dose of food-poisining thanks to all the deep-fried, open-air, stall food. 

I no longer have to get decked up like a Christmas tree and parade in front of half a million women I barely know, in the blistering heat. Perhaps, this is the only bit of the festival, I don't miss.

I no longer have to try and understand Bengali and retort in my hideous broken Bengali, to all and sundry. 

You tried your best to be a cool, fraud Bong, but come Durga Puja, your Bengali fangs were out like razor sharp claws. And I loved every bit of it. I loved the pandals, the food stalls, the mishtis and Durga maa all decked up on stage for ten glorious days.

I fell in love with the tradition and the festivities, along with you. This year I have no one to take me pandal hopping, no one to play Sindoor Khela with and no one to eat Puja Bhog with.

You are missed, everyday. There are times I look at photographs of us and it completely takes my breath away, because you are so young. Dying at 35, was the greatest injustice that happened to you, me and our son.

Subho Maha Ashtami, wherever you are, my dearest poopie. I don't have the courage to enter a puja pandal ever again.