I grew up in Krishnagar, a small town in West Bengal known more for Jagadhatri Pujo than Durga Pujo. It’s the birthplace of the former, after all. But what most people don’t know is that Krishnagar also quietly housed a small Luso-Indian community—descendants of Portuguese settlers who once made their home along the Hooghly river, far removed from the more widely known Goan Portuguese settlements.
My childhood Pujo memories aren’t filled with the maddening rush of Kolkata’s pandals or the chaos of five outfits in five days. In Krishnagar, Kali Pujo and Jagadhatri Pujo reigned supreme, and Durga Pujo was almost a soft prelude to what was coming.
Still, Ashtami had its charm.
The Patra Bajar Years
Back then, Saptami would often slip by quietly. But Ashtami was sacred—not just in prayer, but in social ritual. It was the day everyone dressed in sarees, met up with their friends, and went “out.” And by out, I mostly mean to one specific place: Patra Bajar.
Every town has that one spot, and for us, it was this club named after the Bengali word “patra,” which also means groom or suitor. The irony wasn’t lost on us teenagers. “Let’s go husband hunting,” we’d joke, even though we knew full well we were just there to be seen, laugh, click photos, and feel that special Ashtami glow.
Even though Durga Pujo wasn’t a grand affair in our town, the vacation certainly was. Despite being in a convent school, we got long holidays, and the same extended into my college years. But even then, I chose to go home during Pujo, always bypassing Kolkata’s fabled pandal madness.
2012: Pujo in the City of Joy
That changed in 2012, the first year I stayed in Kolkata for Pujo. My husband I had had started dating earlier that year. I came home briefly before the holidays and returned on Panchami evening, unaware of what lay ahead.
I was absolutely floored.
People were already out in full force. The city had erupted into a living, breathing carnival. Pandal hoppers flooded the streets—I couldn’t even make it to my own place. Eventually, I gave up and met my now-husband elsewhere, and we headed to his locality where my sister was staying that year.
I had no clue every single form of transport would be crammed wall-to-wall. But that year gave me my first real taste of Kolkata Pujo, and I fell in love—with the chaos, the artistry, the shared joy, and the sleepless nights. It was also the year I truly started building my own Durga Pujo memories with my partner.
I stayed with my sister, and my mother came to visit for Ashtami. The three of us went out that day, while the rest of the time I explored the city with my boyfriend, sometimes with my sister. Dashami, I assumed, would be quiet, so we went back to Krishnagar. I had no idea then how much this rhythm would change in the years to come.
From First Love to Family Traditions
Ever since, I’ve spent nearly all my Pujos in Kolkata—except for two very special exceptions.
One was in 2019, when I was pregnant and battling Hyperemesis Gravidarum. Still, I insisted on visiting Patra Bajar in Krishnagar, looking like a ghost of my usual self, but unwilling to break the tradition.
The second time was during the post-pandemic Pujo, when my sister came home from Germany and met my son for the first time. We visited just one pandal. An acquaintance touched my son’s cheek without wearing a mask, and my sister grabbed my hand and we ran home. That was enough excitement for one year.
But in those quiet years, I noticed something wonderful—Krishnagar’s Durga Pujo had grown. The youngsters had picked up where we left off. Patra Bajar lives on.
The Magical All-Nighter (And the One That Almost Didn’t Happen)
My first all-night pandal hopping happened the year before we got married. My husband, not a festive person by nature, prefers appreciating pujo from a distance. But that year, he composed the music for one of the pandals, so we spent long hours there.
We’d start our evening sometimes on foot, covering nearby areas, meeting friends, having dinner at his house, and then heading out on his bike to explore more—until the sun came up and the dhaak signaled a new day. We’d sleep the morning away and do it all over again. That year was nothing short of magical.
We replicated the tradition in 2018, after our wedding. But 2019 changed things. I wondered: Was that our last night of wild, carefree pandal hopping? Could we do it with a baby?
Motherhood & Masks: Pujo in a New Light
In 2020, I gave birth at the onset of the pandemic. Lockdown was still looming during Pujo, and we stayed indoors—except for one quiet afternoon outing to a few local pandals. My then 9-month-old was more fascinated by strangers’ cameras and phones than the goddess herself.
In 2021, the second wave had just settled. That one outing where someone touched my son’s face turned us into homebodies again.
But the following year, something shifted.
On Ashtami, we visited Naktala, and my son slept through the whole thing. That night, at my in-laws’ place, he refused to leave with us after dinner. My husband, seeing a rare opportunity, suggested: Should we go out?
We called up a couple friends to see they would go out. And they were indeed going out. We met up and headed far north, and just like that—our first night out since pregnancy happened. It felt liberating and surreal. My mom-brain was still in my in-laws’ house, worrying, but I also felt alive again.
That night also gave my in-laws their long-awaited sleepover with their grandson. He is not a good sleeper and it took my MIL, DIL and FIL more than 3hrs to get him to sleep. With mutual effort. He eventually told my MIL, “Put me back in bed, this lap is not comfortable,” and that line has since gone down in family legend.
A New Kind of Family Ritual
Now our son is older, and Durga Pujo is something we do as a family of three. We go out in the evenings or even at night—with the safety net of our car, so he can nap if he’s tired. We often plan with close, trusted friends—some who have kids the same age, some who are unofficially his godparents.
Some years when there’s still a few days of school vacation left, we visit my parents on Bijoya. Some years I call my mom to visit us the early Pujo days instead. My mom isn’t a night person, she sleeps early and wakes up early. But two days in a year she accompanies us to our early late night pandal hopping, the furthest ones. We opt one big pandal per night, along with my in-laws and with a car full of people we go for a drive and come back after hopping one pandal.
Pujo today is a blend of the old and the new. We’ve made our own rituals.
Durga Pujo to me is now as sacred as Christmas, as cherished as Jagadhatri Pujo. Sometimes we still visit Krishnagar on Dashami. Other times, I do Boron on Bijoya and call my mom sometimes during Panchami and Shashti.
As a multicultural family, it’s important to me that my son grows up experiencing the full spectrum—the dhaak and the jingle bells. We decorate together for Diwali, visit Krishnagar for Jagadhatri Pujo, go pandal hopping every single day of Durga Pujo, and celebrate Christmas under a massive tree with my entire family.
This Year
This year, I plan to do Boron properly—something I missed last year. And as I write this, I’m already planning our outfits, our route, and our rituals.
Because Pujo isn’t just five days of festivity—it’s a lifetime of memories, shifting meanings, and new beginnings. And whether it’s in the alleys of Krishnagar or the chaos of Kolkata, Durga Pujo is mine now—claimed, created, and celebrated on my own terms.
