Festive Days at Danforth
Dr.Ratan Bhattacharjee
The maple leaves had begun their slow descent, painting the sidewalks of Toronto in hues of amber and crimson. It was late September, and the city was preparing for the annual Durga Puja celebrations. On Danforth Avenue, the Bengali community buzzed with anticipation—saris were being ironed, dhotis folded, and the scent of nolen gur and ghee wafted from kitchens where payesh simmered gently.Shaibal and Amina arrived at Pearson International Airport on a misty Thursday morning. The air was crisp, tinged with the scent of fall. As they stepped out of the terminal, a gust of wind carried with it a memory—twenty years ago, they had walked hand in hand through the University of Toronto campus, their hearts young and full of poetry. Now, living in Heidelberg, Germany, with careers in literature and translation, they had returned not just as visitors but as honored guests—invited poets for the Danforth Durga Puja.Their invitation had come from the Toronto Bengali Cultural Society, a handwritten letter sealed with nostalgia. “Come home,” it had said. “Come back to where your love began, and let your words bless our puja.”
The Uber ride from the airport to Greektown was quiet, save for the occasional murmur of traffic and the soft hum of the radio playing an old Kishore Kumar melody. Amina leaned her head against the window, watching the city unfold—familiar yet changed. Condos had risen where bookstores once stood, and cafés now bore names in cursive fonts, serving turmeric lattes and vegan mishti doi.Shaibal reached over and gently squeezed her hand. “Still feels like home?”She smiled. “More than ever.”Their Airbnb was a cozy second-floor apartment above a Bangladeshi grocery store on Pape Avenue. The landlady, Mrs. Dutta, greeted them with a warm smile and a plate of shingara. “You two haven’t aged a day,” she said, though her eyes betrayed the years. “I still remember your poetry reading at the university. You made us all cry.”That evening, they walked to the puja pandal at the Eastminster United Church, where the community had gathered for decades. The familiar strains of dhaak drums echoed through the street, mingling with the scent of incense and fried luchis. Inside, the idol of Ma Durga stood radiant—her eyes fierce, her ten arms poised in divine grace.
The next day, the poetry session was held in the community hall, its walls adorned with alpana designs and strings of marigolds. Children ran about in kurta-pajamas and lehengas, their laughter a counterpoint to the solemnity of the rituals.Shaibal read first. His voice, deep and deliberate, carried the weight of years spent translating Tagore into German. He recited a new poem, “Sharad Smriti,” a meditation on autumn, memory, and the quiet ache of return.Amina followed with a piece titled “Danforth Diaries,” a lyrical recollection of their student days—of late-night chai at Donlands, of stolen kisses in the stacks of Robarts Library, of the first snowfall that caught them unprepared but laughing.The audience was spellbound. Elderly uncles nodded in approval; teenagers whispered to each other, perhaps seeing their own futures in the couple before them.After the reading, a young woman approached them. “I’m studying literature at U of T,” she said shyly. “Your poems… they made me feel seen.”Amina touched her arm gently. “Then we’ve done our job.”
On Saturday, they visited the old café where they had first met—The Blue Door, now rebranded as a minimalist espresso bar. The walls were bare, the music electronic, but the corner table by the window remained.They sat there, sipping flat whites, watching the city move past.“Do you remember,” Shaibal said, “how you spilled coffee on my manuscript?”Amina laughed. “And you said, ‘Now it’s a collaboration.’”They walked through the campus afterward, past Convocation Hall and Philosopher’s Walk. The trees were ablaze with color, and students lounged on the grass, oblivious to the ghosts of past lovers who once walked these paths.
On the final day of the puja, the hall was a riot of red and gold. Women in white saris with red borders gathered for sindoor khela, smearing vermilion on each other’s faces in a celebration of feminine power and solidarity.Amina stood before the idol, her eyes moist. She dipped her fingers into the sindoor and turned to Shaibal. “For us,” she whispered, pressing a red mark onto his forehead.He smiled, then did the same. “For all our autumns to come.”As the drums reached a crescendo and the crowd erupted into chants of “Bolo Durga Mai ki jai!”, they stood hand in hand, surrounded by a community that had once raised them, now welcoming them home.That evening, after the sindoor khela, Shaibal and Amina returned to their apartment, their faces still streaked with red, their hearts full. Mrs. Dutta had left a note on their door: “Come upstairs for tea. I made narkel naru.”They climbed the narrow staircase to her flat, where the walls were lined with sepia-toned photographs—Durga Puja from the 1980s, a young bride in a Banarasi sari, a child holding a toy dhaak.Over tea, Mrs. Dutta shared stories of the early days. “We used to gather in basements,” she said. “One idol, borrowed saris, and so much love. Now look—our children speak in three languages and our puja has a website.”
Shaibal smiled. “The diaspora grows, but the roots deepen.”Amina noticed a stack of letters on the table, tied with a red ribbon. “Old love letters?” she teased.Mrs. Dutta chuckled. “No, old invitations. Every year, I write them by hand. It’s my way of keeping the soul in it.”She handed them one. “This was yours. I kept a copy.”Amina unfolded the letter. The ink was slightly smudged, but the words were clear: Come home. Come back to where your love began, and let your words bless our puja.
On Sunday morning, the immersion procession began. The idol was placed on a truck adorned with flowers, and the community followed on foot, singing, dancing, and bidding farewell to Ma Durga.Shaibal and Amina walked with them, their steps slow, deliberate. Children threw petals into the air; elders chanted mantras. The truck made its way to the waterfront, where the idol would be immersed in Lake Ontario.As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting golden light on the water, Amina whispered, “It feels like we’re letting go of something.”Shaibal nodded. “And making space for something new.”They watched as the idol was gently lowered into the lake, the ripples carrying her away. Around them, people wept, laughed, hugged. It was not an ending—it was a promise to return.
Back in Heidelberg, weeks later, Amina sat by the window of their apartment, the Rhine flowing quietly below. She opened her notebook and began to write:Sharad days at Danforth, where maple met marigold, And memory wore a sari of crimson and gold. We came as poets, but left as pilgrims, Carrying verses soaked in sindoor and song.The dhaak still echoes in our bones, The payesh still simmers in our dreams. And somewhere on Pape Avenue, A letter waits, sealed with nostalgia.
She closed the notebook and looked at Shaibal, who was translating Rilke at the dining table.“Next year?” she asked. He smiled. “Always.”
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