The same weird feeling churned her stomach. Absolutely annoying it had become; and since the past month, this had been an unwanted and unwarranted companion of Durga. She lay on that small ramshackle cot and looked at the shelves, hoping to find something to munch. There should be a chips packet no? Rudra da assured her something spicy and tangy would be kept. But no. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing, except for a few biscuits scraping the base of that glass jar. Rudra da’s grandma’s jar. He kept it as a sign of her legacy or love or whatever. Durga stared at that, rather glowered almost and mused if she could hold her hunger for some more time. Second day of Durga Puja, Paromita Aunty might cook some mutton. And probably, like the other day, she would heed Durga’s plight and send a bowl of mutton through Rinku, her ten year old daughter. A gush of air flew in through the window. And, along came the mellifluous drum beats. Durga got up and ran to the window. She glanced at the wall clock. Huh! It had also stopped last night at two. How come she didn’t realize? She was awake the whole night; gathering courage to ask Rudra da for a saree. And she could ask. After six months of marriage, she finally demanded something and even agreed to disown any hope for anything expensive. With tear soaked eyes, she was ready to reconcile even with a simple printed cotton saree if not a Tangail. Bright sunlight and that azure blue sky stretched unendingly with loose white cottony patches of clouds. It looked beautiful; much like a polka dot saree. Like how Priyanka Chopra wore for that award function! Her eyes glittered with that mere thought passing through. At least for that feeble second Durga could knit a fairy tale for herself. Much rewarding actually, than the brutal truth of her present life. Somewhere, it stockpiled a tale of unblemished love, a sketch of that perfect life which Durga had always imagined. She peeped out a little more. Did Maa Durga really live there in the sky? With her four kids and her husband? She pondered. The distant roads, however far her eyes could reach, were all bristling with life. Obviously. It was Kolkata. And it was Durga Puja. Nobody sat idle at home. However, Durga remained locked in her house. Not a single pandal she could visit yet. So what? Even the old man of the opposite house, spending most of his time sitting on that mottled, half broken balcony wouldn’t have been to a pandal. Not only this year, but for many years. Durga sighed at her pitiable consolation. She glanced at that house. She wondered, how two old people could remain alive and agile in that anytime-crumbling building. That house was some 200 years old and could collapse anytime soon. She sighed and doubted if that was the lone one in such a pathetic situation. Absolutely not. Most of the houses around were equally ruined. A string of chants reached Durga. Probably from that next lane pandal. Although faint, she could surmise the priest reciting the Pushpanjali Slokas. How couldn’t she? She was after all brought up amidst the grandeur of Roy Chaudhuri dynasty with a hundred year history of Durga Puja. Tears slid down her cheeks. Was she right in leaving her bloodline; rather everything behind for the sake of love? Durga never understood what Rudra thought of her decision. One fine morning, when she stood at his door carrying a small bag with few clothes, Rudra simply let her in. Neither he questioned nor did he advise. Neither was he angry nor looked happy. Not even a hint of disbelief he showed. He just let her in, closed the door and resumed with his painting. God! Durga could no longer distract her hunger. She opened the jar and chomped down all the biscuits. At least a momentary respite; before Rudra got something for lunch from that adjacent mess. Ugh! She puked. That’s not lunch. A bowl of heavily starched rice, watery dal and some vegetable. Occasionally, a small piece of fish Rudra got, drowned inside a brownish gravy.  She scraped the crumbly bottom of the jar and licked her fingers. It was Saptami. Shikha kakima (aunt) and Asha didi (sister) might be busy making khichudi and laabda. Baba (father) might be instructing the cooks to take extra care while frying the fishes. Today he would have brought Rohu and Paabda. Pulav was always prepared for Ashtami bhog. Today, it would be plain rice, roasted moong dal and brinjal fried lengthwise. Durga felt the flush of saliva bickering inside her mouth. No holds barred, Durga was indeed missing her once-upon-a-time luxurious life. She lay down again. Belly cramped a couple of times. She looked at the calendar which Paromita Aunty lent her. It should be her time of the month. However, three months had passed since her last one came. Durga was just nineteen. She had often missed her periods but it had never cramped so badly. Moreover, she had never been into such wicked hunger. Her eyes stared the ceiling fan. Rotating out on a limb, it could stop or fall any day. She had asked Rudra da to replace it and as usual the request was put on hold. Even the slightest of the wind made the left window pane bang onto the grill rods. The stopper on the jamb had broken, what now felt like many eons ago. Many a night, that raucous noise had snatched sleep from her eyes. Strangely, it never disturbed Rudra da. He slept peacefully, lugging that immutable kind smile. Tear drenched, Durga sniffed as she strolled down her memory. One year ago, Rudra da was invited to Roy Chaudhury Nivas for drawing a portrait of Durga’s grandfather, along with the project of painting their years of heirloom. Durga’s eldest cousin, Dipankar had introduced Rudra da to the