Durga Puja

‘Dance! Yes dance!’ A man covered in purple paint and glitter is shouting at me. I can barely hear him over the drums. How did it come to this? And why aren’t I dead or maimed? Important questions that I can answer only by going back. So I will.

We’re walking through the aptly named Hindu Street in Old Dhaka. All around us the Durga Puja activities are building to a frenzy. The street is narrow and hemmed in by old rotting colonial facades. As we make our way through the throngs of people we are surrounded by freshly cooked food and hawkers selling everything from conch-shell bracelets to spider-man masks. We walk under shrines that have been constructed and raised above the street on bamboo scaffolding. Lurid effigies of the many-armed Durga and other Hindu gods stare down on us as families gather amongst them to dance, chant and celebrate. This is what we have come to see. This is the biggest Hindu festival in the calendar. Now, I’m no expert on this so if you want to know more about the history and meaning of the festival I refer you to the link under my ‘Interesting Stuff’ column. Now, I’ll continue.

We stand on the dock overlooking the vast river dotted with all manner of vessels from huge hulking tankers rusting at their moorings to little passenger boats made of wood. At dusk the contents of the shrines we have passed are due to be thrown into the water to symbolise Durga being reunited with Shiva. We decide to take a boat out onto the river thinking that it will afford us the best view. There is a nice breeze on the water but not much is happening. Crowds seem be gathering on the bank and we are beginning to feel left out so we quickly make landfall and make our way to the centre of the crowd. The anticipation is building, the air crackles with it as the sound of music and shouting can be heard down the street. Suddenly, we find ourselves on the pier, the prime position. We passed the lines of armed police with an ease only white skin can bring. ‘Journalist?’ Says an officer with an AK 47. ‘Yes, BBC’ I reply, meekly waving my tiny digital camera at him. He seems satisfied. And then the crowd falls upon us. A maelstrom of heaving bodies and shouts as the goddess is brought down to the river accompanied by the devil and assorted other dignitaries. Carefully, she is placed on one of the waiting wooden boats and taken out onto the water where, just as quickly as she appeared, she vanishes into the murky depths. The crowd comes roaring back and disperses into the labyrinth of streets behind us. There is more to come.

We’re wandering up a street thinking this is the end, when, in the distance, we see a huge truck carrying more effigies of gods. Surrounding it is a crowd of several hundred all dancing to a drum beat. We climb up onto a wall to get a better view as cheery crowds dance on the street below us. This is great, the view’s incredible. But can’t we get IN the crowds? At first it was intimidating, the people and sounds, but now it looks welcoming, fun. We have to be a part of this. And so we walk down the street swept up by wave after wave of partying crowds, each accompanying their float to the water. Some have drums, some have massive speakers blaring out Bangla dance music. Each time we’re caught in another wave more people implore us to dance, to take part. I feel a hand grab my arm and I wheel around to see a man covered in purple and glitter. ‘Dance. Yes, dance!’