The first light of the morning came and sat on the window grille, hesitated, then leapt in. Like an old song, tired and familiar, trying to be remembered.
Rudra Bose sat by the window, a cup of tea steaming beside him. The cup was chipped, the saucer mismatched, the tea, a stubborn blend of milk, tea dust, and habit.
Outside, the lane yawned into a waking slumber, its air thick with last night’s incense, stale samosa oil, and the ever-present, low-grade emissions.
“Ma is coming,” he had heard someone shout on the street last evening……
Durga Pujo. Once, it had been magic.
As a boy, he had spent mornings watching Mashis, aunts and Boudis, sisters-in-law, threading marigolds for the Pandal and Thakurer Bedi.
— An excerpt from The Last Writer of Kolkata and Other Stories
What does Durga Pujo mean to you?
Is it the Goddess, the neighbourhood, the people we grew up with—or a Kolkata that lives on in our memories, even as the city changes around us?
This Mahalaya, I invite you to step into Rudra Bose’s world: a future Kolkata where technology has transformed the city, but the longing for what has been lost remains deeply human.
📖 Discover the Last Writer of Kolkata and Other Stories: https://www.amazon.in/dp/9376313402 ( India) , https://www.amazon.com/dp/ B0GYX13WF1 (US)
Some stories imagine the future. Others help us remember what we must not lose.
In musing….. Shakti Ghosal
