Dhunuchi

The story

Joy is meant to be seen. If you feel it, show it.

There's a moment at sandhya arati when the lamp is raised, the dhaak doubles its beat, and the smoke from the dhunuchi rolls across the pandal like weather.

Most people step back. You step in.

You've been planning this since July. Not the dance: that arrives on its own, the way it arrived for every uncle and aunty who ever held a clay dhunuchi of smouldering coconut husk above their head and turned slowly, wrists steady, while the dhaaki watched their feet. What you've been planning is everything around it. Five days, five looks. A Dhakai jamdani for Saptami. Garad silk with a red border for Ashtami, because some things are not up for discussion. Something with sneakers for Navami, because Navami is long. Alta drying on your feet as you walk. Jhumkas that make a sound when you turn.

Pujo is the one week a year the whole city dresses up and turns out, and you think it deserves your full effort. It isn't vanity. It's attendance. If the city is going to be this beautiful, someone should match it.

You know everyone is filming. You don't mind. You were made for the part where everyone watches, and you make it look like an invitation rather than a show: by the second round there are six more people in the circle, and one of them is a Para Kid's grandfather who hasn't danced since 1998.

Somewhere, an Art Kid is photographing you and will never tell you. On the front row of plastic chairs, the aunties are judging the dhunuchi competition, informally and correctly, and have already decided you won.

On Dashami you're at the front of the bhasan procession, dancing like the goddess deserves a proper send-off, because she does. There's red on everyone's cheeks, the dhaak is in your chest, and the whole street is shouting asche bochor abar hobe.

Main character energy, Kolkata edition. Everyone else just calls it Pujo.