With Puja coming in 3 days and me being an usual, mushy, ordinary Bengali, I can't help but feel mellow; and wonder whether I'm slave to ceremonial exhibitionism? or is it natural? (which again makes me think....is there anything natural? But no, I'll leave my idle philosophical speculation aside, stop being judgemental on myself and others and just take things in their face value.)
Even though it's getting quite chilly at night (sub zero) and I've to groan and partially close my window while sleeping, I can feel the crisp breeze back home.
And wish I was home; wish I could be at those times when my anger, my happiness, my dreams, my laughter, my tears, my angst.....all centered around Ma, Baba and my brother.
This would be my second year in Canada and in this goddamned place called Calgary where I wouldn't (or rather couldn't) attend a Puja. Not that it totally provides a balmy experience in attending a phoren puja, but well....admit it...you don't feel your life is so full of shit.
No, not that it matters to anybody if I don't go and meet grandfatherly Dada's and self-important and amusingly jealous Boudi-s.....but it does matter a lot to me when I'm not being able to conceal the tears in dhuno'r dhoa and stare through a blur;
when I'm not being able to meet friends and family;
when I've to eat the same old mundane food like 800 other days;
when I'm unable to be anything other than cranky;
when I'm unable to stare at the face above across many heads, amidst habitual assumption, amongst privileged situations.
