Wet clay weighs down the damp air, competing with the hard sun's sultriness. Earlier, a crow collapsed on the balcony. A coterie of mourners in black took charge of the morning's soundscape. How dare anyone interrupt their incessant cawing? If you do not like the sound you can always shut your wooden doors and hope for the best. That's what she did. Now the crow and its companions have disappeared. How far can they go? They must be in the thickets, out of sight.
As usual, the balcony rattles just a little with the whizzing Circular Rail. Behind the passing train daily bathers take another dip in the Hooghly River. The quick fingers of a fettler scrape the glaze off the arms of a Kartik idol. A neatly pleated, gold and blue-embroidered dhoti flutters impatiently next to the naked, half-painted model. Nowadays, Kartik – the pretty god – commands attention only after the larger Kali and Jagadhatri puja orders are complete.
She was in Ma's womb when a Kartik idol entered their house for the last time. It is not as if her parents did not want a daughter, they only wanted to honour the family tradition of asking Kartik to bless the pregnant mother with a son (or so they say). When they learnt that they had to make do with a daughter, they named her Pratima – an idol in the likeness of the infinite deity.
Somewhere, bamboo sticks shake as the wire corsets are tightened. What idol are they binding the straw for at this time of year? After Kartik, the next – as far as she can tell – will be Saraswati. But that is months away.