One of my earliest memories of offering pushpanjali during puja at Vidyasagar Niketan is the rush my friends and I would be in to stand in the first row of residents, barely a foot away from the stage where Ma Durga and her children would be housed in the finery of daker saaj. The idea was to be able to accurately lob our devotions at the feet of our chosen idol using the bunch of phool-belpata in our palms once the priest finished chanting the mantra.

As is customary, we would get three turns: Ma Durga was the anointed recipient of our offering the first time, Ma Saraswati came next, and the third was for Lord Ganesh, for some reason my favourite.

The ritual concluded with prayers led by the purohit, who would often get emotional enough to allow his voice to break while shedding a tear. It was a moment.

For us, anjali would start off as a joyous offering, a rite of passage among friends every year during Puja, but culminate in this heady feeling of goodness mixed with accomplishment; an awakening of sorts, no doubt heightened by the welcome thought that soon prasad would be on way and our palates, dry from fasting, would finally be satiated.

This year, Vidyasagar Niketan is celebrating 50 years of hosting Ma Durga. It is the oldest community puja in Salt Lake, and, therefore, a grand commemoration was planned, until of course a certain virus changed everything. The idol was shorter in height, the pandal distinctly small. Bhog, usually a four-day lunch spread of familiar puja delicacies, was on offer only on Ashtami, but home-delivered in use-and-throw containers. Anjali too had to be socially distanced.

Anjali being offered at HB Block on Ashtami. Saradindu Chaudhury

Most of my anjali compatriots have moved on. But the ones that are in town, do make it a point to come to Vidyasagar, even if for a day, during Puja and join the ones who are still living there. There was only one friend with me this time during anjali. The others had chosen to complete the ritual from their respective apartments. After all, the priest was on loudspeaker. We were a handful of people, with the young brigade of organisers urging us to spread out. There would be no pushpa in the day’s anjali. So, no flowers and bel leaves to clutch in our palms. It was left to thakurmoshai to do the honours for us. That meant no customary, round-arm, over-the-shoulder throw of our offering. Standing way back from the stage to be socially distanced, but with a clear view of Ma Durga, we began:

Om namoh. Om Jayanti, Mangala Kali, Bhadrakali, Kapalini.

Durga, Shiba, Khama, Datri, Swaha, Swadha Namostute.

Esha sho chandana, gandhapuspa, billo patranjali, om, r`hing Durgaoi namoh...

It was a moment. But there was no dawn mist breaking. Yet, I think I had a fleeting sense of that heady feeling of goodness mixed with accomplishment when the priest signed off on prayers by invoking the goddess as “coronasuranashini”. Or maybe it was just me, daring to be hopeful. Between Navami and Dashami, new coronavirus infections through the country had dropped below 50,000. That’s meant to be good news!