It was the evening before Mahalaya, and Mori Road was once again bedecked like a bride—resplendent with rows of shining lights and people rushing about, putting the finishing touches on the pandal that was getting ready to welcome the Goddess. The evening before is always busy, and as usual, I was delayed with chores. I eventually found myself at Chandu’s kirana store, asking for a long list of things—much to his disdain, as he hates being rushed. “You’re always in a hurry,” he admonished while attending to a demanding customer. Nearby, a boy of ten or twelve was negotiating hard with Chandu for a few pieces of chocolate. “It’s my father’s birthday tomorrow—can you give me a discount?” he asked. Chandu was not one to part with discounts, but I suppose the boy had been at it for a while, and finally, he gave in. “I don’t have change,” Chandu said, as the boy handed him a fifty-rupee note. The boy turned to me and asked, “Uncle, can you help with change?” I obliged and settled his bill ...
A tap on my shoulder and as I turned around he asked me “Do you remember me?” It was the evening before Mahalaya and this time it was even more special. I was back for the Pujo after a gap of five years but flet like a lifetime of being away. “How are you sir?” he asked again. It has never been my strength to put names to faces and it is even more embarrassing when the person greeting you seems to know exactly who you are. Mori Road was busy and bedecked like a bride for the Navratri festival to follow. In a few hours the Goddess would arrive to the beating of the drums. I managed to put on a sheepish grin to acknowledge his presence. “I am fine” I muttered as I tried to match his face to just anyone I might have known over the years. He was a short gentleman, well endowed around the middle, with a perfectly rounded face that was well complimented with the light reflecting off his gleaming scalp. He wore thick rimmed glasses and had a smile that would endear him to ...