Delhi's Festival Season

A Personal Journey

After the quiet, reflective weeks of Sawan and Shraddha, I watch Delhi transform before my eyes. The city awakens with an energy that’s almost electric—you can feel it in the air as neighbors begin whispering excitedly about preparations, as the sound of hammering echoes from workshop corners, and as the first fragrant incense begins wafting through the streets. These weeks leading up to Durga Puja and Dussehra don’t just arrive; they sweep you up in a whirlwind of tradition, art, and pure community spirit.

Witnessing the Birth of a Goddess

I find myself drawn to the workshops where the kumars work their magic, their hands moving with practiced reverence as they shape clay into divine form. Watching them collect that special alluvial soil, mixing it with straw and husk, I realize I’m witnessing something ancient and sacred. The clay feels cool and earthy when I touch it, carrying the essence of the river within.

But nothing prepares me for the Chokkhudaan ceremony. Standing in that hushed workshop, I watch as the artist lifts his brush to paint the goddess’s eyes. The moment feels suspended in time—suddenly, the clay figure transforms. Those painted eyes seem to look directly at me, and I understand why devotees believe the goddess has truly arrived. The dazzling colors that follow—brilliant reds, deep blues, gleaming golds—bring her fully to life before my wondering gaze.

Lost in the Magic of CR Park

When I step into Chittaranjan Park during Durga Puja, I’m no longer in Delhi—I’ve been transported to “Mini Kolkata,” and the transformation is breathtaking. The bamboo pandals tower around me, some crafted to look like ancient temples, others showcasing contemporary artistry that makes me stop and stare in amazement.

The crowds carry me along from pandal to pandal, and I find myself caught up in the rhythm of it all—the hypnotic beat of dhak drums that seems to pulse through my very bones, the rustle of silk sarees, the excited chatter in Bengali. My mouth waters as I pass food stalls where the aroma of fish fry mingles with the sweet promise of mishti. At CR Park Kalibari, Minto Road, and Kashmere Gate, I join the throngs seeking darshan, feeling the collective devotion wash over me like a warm wave.

Giants Rise from Bamboo and Dreams

In the workshops of Tatarpur, I witness another kind of artistry—the birth of giants. These aren’t just effigies; they’re towering monuments to storytelling, some reaching a hundred feet into the sky. I watch artisans weave bamboo into the framework of Ravan, Meghnad, and Kumbhkaran, using recycled materials with an ingenuity that astounds me.

Running my hands along the bamboo supports, feeling the texture of recycled cloth that will soon become royal robes, I’m struck by how these temporary creations carry such weight of meaning. When Dussehra evening arrives and I stand in the crowd watching these giants burn, the heat from the flames warming my face, I feel the ancient story come alive—good conquering evil in a spectacular blaze of fireworks and cheers.

Drama Comes Alive Under Delhi’s Sky

I lose myself completely in the Ram Leela performances that fill Delhi’s evenings. At Ramleela Maidan, surrounded by thousands of other spectators, I become part of the story. The actors’ voices ring out across the night air, their elaborate costumes glittering under the lights. Music and dance swirl around me, building to that climactic moment when the effigies burst into flames.

In these moments, sitting on the ground with families who’ve brought their children and grandparents, sharing in their gasps of delight and thunderous applause, I understand how entertainment becomes devotion, how community celebration becomes something sacred.

The Crimson Farewell That Breaks and Heals Hearts

On Vijayadashami, I witness something that moves me to tears—the Sindur Khela ritual. Standing among the gathered women in their traditional sarees, I watch as they tenderly apply vermilion to Durga’s forehead and feet. Their prayers seem to hover in the air, heavy with love and hope for their families.

Then the mood shifts, and suddenly these same women are laughing, smearing sindur on each other’s faces with joyful abandon. The red powder flies everywhere, coating cheeks and hands, staining sarees, creating a canvas of sisterhood. I see older women embracing younger ones, mothers-in-law playfully marking daughters-in-law, friends becoming sisters in these crimson-stained moments.

The ritual captures something profound—in the midst of saying goodbye to the goddess, these women create their own celebration of strength and unity. Even as my heart breaks a little watching the farewell, the infectious joy of their solidarity lifts my spirits, making me believe in Durga’s promise to return.

The Rhythm of Celebration

From the haunting call of Mahalaya that first summons the goddess, through the crescendo of Vijaya Dashami and the triumphant finale of Dussehra, I feel Delhi’s heartbeat change. Walking through neighborhoods transformed by devotion, breathing air thick with incense and anticipation, sharing meals with strangers who become friends—I become part of something larger than myself.

This isn’t just about watching traditions unfold; it’s about being swept into a river of celebration that carries millions of us together. Bengali customs blend seamlessly with broader Hindu traditions, creating something uniquely Delhi’s own. In these weeks, I don’t just observe the city’s festival landscape—I become part of its radiant, pulsing heart, carrying the memory of dhak beats and sindur-stained smiles long after the last effigy has burned and the final goddess has been bid farewell.