I Know What You Did That Night!

The ornate crown with its studded beads and stones shone refracting the light. In fact, they glittered all over her – right from the crown perched over her head, jhumkas dangling from her ears, multiple chains in her neck, colorful bangles on her hands, the graceful cummerbund circling her waist, to the sparkling anklets around her ankles.

But more than all those, it was her eyes that held people’s attention the most. Those large, doe-like eyes held in their gaze, the seemingly impossible combination of the ferociousness of a warrior, and the forgiveness of a mother. “Or is it my mind projecting into them what I am thinking,” Debasmita wondered as she let her eyes study Durga’s 10 arms, five on either side, most of them holding a weapon of sorts.

The most fearful one was the trident she held in one of her right hands. As her eyes traversed its path, she noticed him at her feet. With his green skin wrapped around a muscular body, a big mustache that traversed across the breadth of his face, he was the quintessential monster that everyone expected to see. One would definitely not miss the misogynist and lustful expression on his face.

She relooked at Durga’s eyes and was glad to find that her gaze was not fixed on the monster and her eyes didn’t hold a trace of the victor’s pride in them, as though victory was business as usual for her. In fact, her eyes exuded tranquility, as if she was signaling to the world that they are safe and that peace shall prevail now.

Debasmita loved everything about this festive season. The pandals with their exceptional creative ideas, the artistic splendor, the enthralling pooja, and even the ever-growing crowds in their festival spirit.

But most of all she loved Durga and what she stood for, against the backdrop of the patriarchal society she lived in. So, while she did enjoy the decorations with such intricate details in the pandals, it was the Durga idol that always caught her fancy and held her in fascination for the variety, and the sameness, it often portrayed.

It was in the posture, the stance, the expression, the color combinations of clothes, and the jewelry that highlighted to her the dexterity of the idol maker.

“This one seems to be a seasoned one,” she thought to herself as she stood admiring the idol. As she was about to move out, she noticed it. She went closer to confirm what she was seeing. Her pupils dilated in disbelief. Yes. It was a deep scar to the left of the monster’s nose. It was the shape of the scar that had caught her attention. It looked like X smeared in red – as though the scar was a wound made out of two gashes from something like a knife – definitely not with a trident. 

The monster was dressed in white dhoti with a red border – which was quite unusual since most of the time the sculptors made sure to avoid dressing the monsters in white since white was symbolically anathema to what monsters stood for. 

There was also an idol of a small girl with helplessness writ large on her face next to the monster, with Durga placing one hand over her head as though she was protecting her. It was the girl’s face that made Debasmita go pale. The similarity was unmistakable.

She scurried out of the pandal to catch her breath. After taking a few deep breaths, she asked one of the volunteers who was trying to regulate the incoming and outgoing traffic, the whereabouts of the idol maker.

Luckily she found out that the idol maker visited the pandal every day morning and he should be doing so that day too. Informing the volunteer that she would wait to personally compliment him, she stood aside in one corner.

Her mind went racing. She put on her dark glasses as she waited in the Sun.

 “It just can’t be a coincidence. It must have been him that day. Or is it my imagination running wild?”

After what seemed like an eternity, she saw the volunteer talking to someone from the corner of her eyes. Since he had his back towards her, she couldn’t make out his face. Within a few moments, he turned and started walking towards her.

“He is of the same size and builds.” She thought as she adjusted her pallu covering her head.

As he walked towards her, his face broke into a broad smile. That’s when she saw those eyes. Even from a distance, she could see that they held the same kind and gentle expression that she had seen that night. 

“Oh My God, it’s him!” she thought. Her heart started pounding inside her chest. She worried whether he could hear it and sense her panic.

“I believe you wanted to meet me. Partho Deb. I am the man who made…” he stopped midsentence with folded hands in greeting. In that split second, she knew he recognized her as the lady fleeing with her eleven-year-old daughter that fateful night, after bludgeoning a man.

“But what did he know about that lecherous man who had made the terrible mistake of assuming that a prostitute’s daughter is up for the taking?” she wondered feeling her heart would burst out.

After a long awkward pause, he finished his sentence by saying “the idol.”

“You are a fantastic artist. I haven’t seen a Durga idol that is as impressive as yours.” She said.

“Well, I had my inspiration from some real-life Durga,” he replied. “Thanks for your appreciation. Take care beti.” He said.

As the old man was about to leave, she called out “Baba. Wait.”

She took a few steps forward and touched his feet. Partho touched her head lightly in blessing. Then they both walked away from each other without another word.