Maa is back. Durga Maa.

For the uninitiated: every autumn, Bengalis welcome home Goddess Durga, who arrives with her four children for a visit to her maternal home. She is the one with ten arms, a lion and a rather unfortunate buffalo demon, Mahishasura, whom she famously vanquished. The city responds by erecting pandals: temporary pavilions, some modest, some the size of cathedrals, each housing her protima (idol). Crowds descend upon these pandals in a ritual known as pandal-hopping, which is exactly as hectic and athletic as it sounds.

Anyone touched by Bengal knows the joy with which Bengalis greet her. Those of us who are not Bengali, but are married to one, are expected to feel the same rush. Alas, nobody tells us how. There is no orientation, no handbook, not even a pamphlet.

Yet for years, I have done my duty. I have listened to the dhakis, the drummers whose rhythm enters the ears and sets up a permanent residence in between. I have admired the artistry of the protima and marvelled at pandals built to resemble the Parliament, the Louvre, or Antilla. Still, the same emotions that Bengalis have failed to rush through me, a Punjabi. My joy lay in watching my better half glow in her element. The crowd, the heat and the noise, I bore like a married man awaiting peaceful days.

Every year, I folded my hands and prayed to Durga Maa for a remedy for pandal-hopping, assuring her it was no reflection on my love and devotion for her. One fine year, as I stood before her, looking for a sign, her eyes moved to the left. At that moment, I couldn’t believe what I saw. Was I hallucinating? I assumed it was the heat. Or the noise. Or my empty stomach playing tricks. But no. Durga Maa’s eyeballs were steered hard port, looking determinedly to her left.

Through the din of the pandal and the dhaks of the drummers, I heard a motherly whisper: ‘Son, on my left are the food stalls. Egg roll, mutton roll, egg-mutton roll, biryani, cutlet, begun bhaja, Mughlai paratha, and more. When you have tried everything, finish with mishti doi and some Bengali sweets before you leave.’

I looked left, right and behind me, bewildered and slightly alarmed. Years of pandal-hopping, and not one soul had told me what Maa had whispered. In Bengal, non-vegetarian food is no lapse in piety. It is practically a cultural identity, a matter of civic pride, and the pandal’s finest unofficial attraction. A Bengali will debate the right kind of biryani with the gravity of a constitutional bench. Of course, Maa had stationed the food stalls by the exit, much like souvenir shops in museums, making it easier to pick a few as one leaves.

That day was the day of divine intervention. It was my moment of awakening. Maa gave me the pamphlet, the orientation, the much-needed handy tip.

Now, as we enter pandals, my wife proceeds, hands folded, eyes brimming with devotion, to Durga Maa, while I proceed, hands free, eyes brimming with devotion, to the egg-mutton roll. Both of us, in our own way, welcome Maa. Both of us leave satisfied, though only one of us leaves with grease on the fingers.

Later, I wondered why Maa whispered to me, a Punjabi of all people. Then it struck me: a mother is happiest when her children are fed well. She sees me as her son. She is the vanquisher of Mahishasura, yes, but also of the hunger of her children. Maa is not merely a protima of beauty, but a mother who ensures beauty reaches the soul via the stomach. She belongs not only to her Bengali devotees, but to everyone who pandal-hops to meet her, especially those who appreciate the Bengali menu.

Welcome home, Maa!

P.S.: There will always be one famous pandal and food you missed. Don’t feel guilty. Let it go. Maa will return next year to vanquish your hunger.