MOHUA CHINAPPA yearns for the fragrance, magic and simplicity of Durga Puja in her Ma’s home

The fragrance of the Sheoli flowers permeates into my being, announcing the arrival of Durga Puja. It is a festival with broken, fragmented, and resurrected memories of my childhood with my Ma. She made a big deal for pujas, planned my new dresses, took out the jewellery from the locker, and to her utter horror I didn’t wear a single one of them ever. I was often unkind to her because it’s easy to be mean to your mother. You know they forgive easily and they will never let you go. It is an unspoken bond of “friends forever.”


I did go along reluctantly in her enthusiasm to the pandal. She was just happy having me next to her. I didn’t realise, this deviousness of her unconditional love and it’s rootedness was making a mark into the consciousness of my being. Her love conquered me in its totality.


When I left home, I felt none of that would matter and I would not need to play along. But strangely, I found myself drawn to the smell of the blooming Sheoli flowers and couldn’t stop the tears of nostalgia soak me in its longing for home.

Mohua Chinappa


I realised unknowingly, I was staring with a lump in my throat, at the horizon, on the onset of the dusk hour, of this season. Ma annoyingly always pointed me this time of Godhuli towards the skies ahead and painted it for me in her special way. I realise this magical hour is truly special, as the sun with its bright crimson hue sets against the winter skies.

 I will yearn forever for the simplicity of my Ma’s home. I imagined with bravado, that I had severed the memory of Ma’s chipped cup and had seamlessly dissolved into the glamour of the china cup, but I realise, it failed miserably in fulfilling my gnawing thirst of belonging.

I craved to return to the familiarity of the used pillow that gave me the best sleep. The sound of her voice in the background and a fragrance that’s only in Mother’s home.

It is the magic of my Ma and her household; it was never boring in spite of its simplicity. I belonged to this like nothing ever. I promise during the growing years, I didn’t know.

This year Puja is going to be different. I can sense the silence. There is no bonhomie, no planning for clothes. There is a sadness that I can’t express in words.


But as usual, my Durga, my Ma, got herself a new sari and did not forget to give me my quota for buying the new dress (I couldn’t tell her, I can barely buy much in that), but it has a painting like every year, made by Ma on the frugal paper envelope, with a handwritten note from her to me. This is priceless, I realise only today.

I must admit, I feel a vacuum, a void that remains inexplicable for a clay sculpture that becomes my hope every year.

It’s the intense need to hold on to my untouched memories as I watch in awe the incense and the sound of the Dhak and the Chandi path on Ma Durga’s beautiful face. I fold my hands and pray for her benevolence, with a belief that she heard my plea.

Just this year the void and my plea remain unaddressed. Stay safe everyone and happy pujas.

Mohua Chinappa, who writes content with a steadfast mission towards activism, has been passionately writing on gender, entrepreneurship, handmade, sustainability, arts & crafts. Over 20 years in the business of selling dreams and managing campaigns across industries, she has worked across India in the international markets for PR/Advertising.