Dugga Dugga.

The holiday mood is temporarily over. I say temporarily just to pacify a very miserable me. Yes, I am having the PDPD (Post Durga Pujo Depression).  As I sit in office, I zone out thinking about the pujo afternoons. The air became earphones streaming dhaak music into my ears. The best bit? I didn’t have to press a repeat button. The red nail paint, band-aids (shields for new shoes) and the camera battery charger became occupants of my side table.  Someone had dragged the brightness/contrast bar of my city to an extreme right. Salivary/sweat glands did overtime duty as sleep took a sabbatical. “Kemon aachish? /Ki Korchish?” was replaced by “Kota thakur dekhli?”  Oh, I could go on forever. 

If the year was a period of invention, Durga Pujo would be the Eureka moment. If the 52 weeks were a masala Bollywood movie, this one week would be the paisa vasool/seeti maaro scene. If 365 days were a session of love making, these 5 days would be the orgasm. If 12 months were a plate of mutton, this quarter of a month would be the meat hidden inside the hollow cylindrical bone. It’s the drug that puts my city on a miraculous high for 120 hours straight.  

Now, the fervour is gradually wearing off. The pulse rate of my city is returning to normal.  Amidst getting back to routine life, my nose still puckers up in search of the pujo pujo gondho. But thank God for the small joys: seeing the photographs, reminiscing moments, making place for the new clothes, eating left over khichudi. They keep me going.  

Okay, now I shall drag my distracted mind back to work. This has been a random/spontaneous blog post yet a very special one.    

I miss you Pujos. 

Love,

A hungover me. 

P.S.- The word ‘hungover’ reminds me of that song from Kick and now I know I will involuntarily hum it throughout the day. There. I am already doing it. Oh dear God. Bye. 

Because I miss the proshad