The Demand
“Uncle, this time we need the full thousand.”
“Yes, bright red bills — Mahatma Gandhi ones.”
“Two five-hundreds will do too.”
“Yes, Uncle, and this time we’ve even included your name on the advisory board in the leaflet. You’re the club’s nearest neighbor, after all. So, of course, we’ll have some requests — well, more like demands really.”
There were about ten young men together, and their chorus of voices sounded less like a request and more like a mix of insistence, pressure — even a hint of threat. They knew it, and so did Parimal Babu, the recently retired schoolteacher who lived across the road from the Surya Sangha Club.
Nights of Noise
The clubroom stood right opposite his house, and nearly twenty local youngsters hung out there every day. Each had a set time — when to arrive, how long to stay. Some days there were picnics, with loud revelry stretching past midnight. Bursts of laughter would pierce the night air so sharply that it felt as if Shibdas Mukherjee’s jatra troupe was rehearsing next door.
One night, unable to bear it any longer, Parimal Babu appeared in front of the club gate. It must have been around half past midnight. The boys were in the middle of a picnic. Seeing him there at that hour, they froze — startled as if they had seen a ghost. Some hastily hid their cigarettes; others tucked away their glasses. Awkwardness all around.
Then, in his deep, steady voice, he said,
“Have your fun if you must — but lower your voices. Sound carries far at night.”
For a moment, the clubroom fell silent as a graveyard.
Someone from inside muttered, “You go now, we’ll take care of it.”
The Silent Message
He went home, his irritation vented, and spent the rest of the night in uneasy quiet. But the next morning, returning from the market, he noticed something odd — the first two letters of his own name on the white stone nameplate at his gate had been smeared over with lime, making them unreadable.
The perceptive Parimal Babu understood the message at once. This was a battle he couldn’t win. One can’t live in water and fight the crocodile. The wise choice was not surrender — but compromise.
A Reluctant Member
From that day on, he too became a semi-regular at Surya Sangha. Not too close, though — he knew these boys called him “Uncle” like a friend, but too much familiarity breeds contempt.
Still, think about it — a retired man living off his pension, and now, “The full thousand, please.” During the festive season, expenses rise like everything else.
Tanmay, one of the boys, had said last year, “No, Uncle, this time no one can outdo us. We’ll be champions. We missed first place last year on Shashthi, but just watch — our budget’s bigger this time.”
Two voices chimed in from the group, “Double last year’s budget!”
“Hmmm… all right,” Parimal Babu replied in his calm, measured voice. “Come by later — I’ll see what I can do.”
The Spirit of Puja
Even though he wasn’t officially on the Puja Committee, the festive spirit of Durga Puja — right next door — touched his heart each year. But age had taken its toll; he no longer went to the club as often. Now, from the balcony of his two-storied house, he watched them build the bamboo framework, tie ropes, raise poles — day after day.
Soon, they covered the entire structure with blue tarpaulin, high enough to reach his roof. Clearly, they didn’t want people to see the pandal too early — the element of surprise was part of the attraction, the “TRP,” as they called it.
The Mystery Theme
Yet, though the Puja was happening right beside his home, he knew nothing of what was going on inside. Curious and a bit restless, he asked one of the boys one day, “So, what’s your theme this year? Everyone says ‘Surprise,’ but what’s it really about?”
“Exactly that, Uncle! This year’s Puja is a real surprise. Nothing can be revealed before the inauguration.”
“What? Even I can’t know anything? You’ve made me an ‘advisor,’ haven’t you?” he said, half amused, half annoyed.
“Sorry, Uncle. Honestly, only the core committee knows the details. We just know—”
“—you just know it’s a ‘surprise Puja,’ right?” he finished dryly.
The boy lowered his head, smiling sheepishly.
Of course, no “surprise Puja” stays secret for long. Whispers turned to rumors, spreading from ear to ear —
“Did you hear? Surya Sangha’s doing a laser show! From Bangalore! Full setup and engineers too!”
Shashthi Evening
By the evening of Shashthi, crowds began to gather outside the pandal gate. The inauguration was set for 7 PM. Politicians, film stars — all rumored to attend. From his balcony, Parimal Babu watched the excitement building.
As dusk fell, dazzling lights and loudspeakers filled the air. Even his old heart swayed with the festive joy. Glancing at the clock — six-thirty — he thought, It’s that time of year again. I must see Mother’s face.
He put on his freshly pressed white dhoti and crisp punjabi and went downstairs.
The VIP Gate
At the pandal gate, volunteers wearing badges scurried around. Spotting Laltu, the assistant secretary, he asked, “Do I have to stand in line too?”
“Oh no, Uncle! Are you going in now? The show won’t start for a while — the inauguration hasn’t even begun.”
“I’d rather go now. Later, the crowd will be too much.”
“In that case, you can use the VIP gate. I have a card — would you like it?”
“That would be best.”
Card in hand, he walked to the special gate, where a few boys stood guard. They didn’t even ask to see it, nor did he show it. Inside, bamboo barricades formed long, narrow lanes leading toward an open space. In front of him stood a massive white screen — the size of a cinema hall.
The Missing Goddess
He realized this was where the laser show would be projected. But he hadn’t come for that. He had come to see the face of the Goddess — Mother Durga — on this sacred day of Shashthi. Every themed Puja, no matter how modern, kept a small traditional shrine somewhere for the actual worship, didn’t they? Where was it here?
He turned around, looking for it. In the distance, he saw a tall tower, like a filming platform at a football match. But where was the idol?
Confused and uneasy, he spotted Tanmay nearby. “Tanmay,” he called, “where exactly is your Puja happening?”
“Right here, Uncle.”
“No, no — I don’t mean the show. I mean the actual worship. Where’s the priest performing the rituals? It’s Shashthi today — I just want to see Mother’s face.”
“That’s inside the club, Uncle.”
“Then let’s go there.”
“No, Uncle, please don’t go in. It won’t be worth it.”
“Why not?”
Tanmay hesitated, flustered. Then, mumbling, said, “You see, we didn’t know how much funding we’d get. And this year’s expenses were huge. So… we decided not to make a clay idol. We’re doing a pot worship inside the club — symbolic, you know. Who’s going to see it anyway? You’re the only one who asked. If you just wait here, you’ll see it all — invisible Durga, Kartik, Ganesha, Lakshmi — everything, through the laser show, Uncle. You’ll see it all!”
The Quiet Grief
But his last words didn’t seem to reach Parimal Babu. A deep shadow of sorrow crossed his face. In a trembling voice, half to himself, he murmured,
“So… the living image of the Mother — replaced by light and illusion. On Shashthi, of all days. Oh, Mother… what have we done in the name of ‘theme’ Puja?”
He folded his hands and bowed his head several times in silent reverence.
Tanmay noticed his eyes were closed. Glancing nervously around, he slipped away — unable to stand there any longer in the weight of that quiet grief.
