Maa

It's Pujo. The smell of chhatim and shiuli everywhere. Pandals being erected on every street, people crowding malls, shopping frenzy, a smile on everyone's face. New beginnings. Four days of festivities, pandal-hopping, catching up with friends and family.

My Maa isn't here this time.

My Maa always used to be sad during Pujo, saying both us brothers do not pay any attention to her Pujo; to drive her around the city, to take her to grandma, to spend time, have phuchka, spot a wonderful new puja. My father had no time either; cards and old mates from school would ensure that he came back home at late hours and was sufficiently drunk not to engage in conversation.
Maa, instead, was busy organising plays for the kids in the apartment, attending apparently meaningless Pujo meetings, doing the meet-and-greet with random strangers, inviting everyone over to the house for a hearty meal. Just to provide a semblance of happiness and fullness in a house that the three of us used merely as a crash pad. But she was happy with just that little. "Amar chhelera khub byasto," she'd say with a smile. A sad smile, but no one else but she — and maybe me and bhai — knew.

Last year, for the first time in my life, I took Maa out on a shopping spree. I was proud to be able to organise all that — the cash, a bit of comfort, and clothes that she flaunted like a queen. "Dodo diyeche," she said. I had never been so proud in my life. I also never realised till that time how proud I could make her feel, even at that stage when I was jobless and when everyone else basically gave up on me. Maa, on the other hand, had unflinching faith in me and my brother, always telling us how 'everything's going to be alright'.

My brother just cut a recording deal with HMV; his band the first original rock band in India to do so. I have a stable job and a band that will debut at one of the biggest rock festivals in the country, come December.
But how am I going to run through this Pujo without crying, like I am now?