Mahalaya: Some Mornings Never Leave You Memories, Mysticism, Music, and a Cup of Tea

 Mahalaya: Some Mornings Never Leave You

Memories, Mysticism, Music, and a Cup of Tea

Mahalaya has always been a day steeped in memories, carrying with it an unmistakable air of mysticism and mystery. And no, it isn't because of the rituals associated with the day. For me, the magic has always lain in that early morning ritual of listening to Mahishasura Mardini—the beautiful compilation of devotional songs by Bengali singers, interspersed with the chanting of Sanskrit shlokas in the mesmerising voice of the late Birendra Krishna Bhadra.

As a little girl, I would often feel irritated by the hustle and bustle in the house at four in the morning. Yes, you read that right! Four in the morning, when the rest of the world was still fast asleep, our household would come alive with activity.

The alarm would ring ten or twenty minutes earlier, summoning the women of the house to the kitchen. Tea had to be prepared for everyone, and flasks filled with the steaming brew for later. I remember how bitterly cold those early mornings could be in Jammu and Lucknow. We would snuggle beneath our quilts and blankets, sipping hot tea, while the unmistakable voice of Birendra Krishna Bhadra filled the room.

I could never quite understand the excitement. Why were the elders so eager to wake up at such an unearthly hour to listen to what, to my young ears, sounded like a collection of old songs and unfamiliar mantras? I would wonder what was so special about it all.

Little did I know that one day, I would find myself yearning for those very mornings.

As I grew older, something changed. I began to understand the rhythm of our culture, the significance of our traditions, and the emotions woven into rituals that had been passed down through generations.

Mahalaya marked the beginning of Devi Paksha and heralded the arrival of Maa Durga. For us Bengalis, it is the much-awaited Agomoni, the homecoming of the Goddess. We believe that Maa Durga comes to visit her parental home, accompanied by her four children, and we welcome her with immense joy, devotion, and fervour.

It is a homecoming that resonates with every daughter who has ever returned to her parents' home, carrying with her the memories of childhood, the comfort of belonging, and the warmth of unconditional love.

Perhaps that is why Mahalaya has always felt so deeply personal.

By the time I reached my teenage years, I had become a willing member of the early-morning gang. Setting the alarm, waking up before dawn, making tea, and then tucking myself beneath the blankets with my parents, sibling, cousins, uncles, and aunts became part of the ritual.

The familiar strains of the Chandi Path, the songs, and the powerful chanting no longer sounded strange. By then, I knew many of the verses and songs by heart. They had become a part of me, as familiar as the faces around me and as comforting as the warmth of the tea in my hands.

And then there was Birendra Krishna Bhadra.

His voice had a magic of its own. There was something haunting, powerful, and almost otherworldly about the way he recited the shlokas. His intonations, the pauses, the cadence, and the sheer intensity of his voice filled me with curiosity and wonder. Even as a young girl, I found myself fascinated by the man behind that extraordinary voice.

To this day, the opening strains of Mahishasura Mardini have the power to transport me to another time, another home, another version of myself.

Of course, Mahalaya was only the beginning of the festivities. The day would be spent preparing for what lay ahead, and the days that followed were filled with anticipation and celebration.

Having been born and brought up in North India, I have a special place in my heart for the Navratri festivities as well. The memories of Kanjak Puja, the halwa-chana-puri prasad, the little girls dressed in their festive finery, and the goodies distributed afterwards bring with them a nostalgia of an entirely different kind.

Then came Durga Puja, Lakshmi Puja, Diwali, and so much more.

Festivities galore, traditions intertwined, and a childhood enriched by the beauty of belonging to more than one cultural world!

Growing up, I never quite realised how precious these experiences were. They were simply a part of life, woven into the fabric of our everyday existence. It is only with the passage of time that one understands how deeply these little rituals shape us, how they become the invisible threads connecting us to our roots, our families, and our past.

And now, life has taken me in a different direction. I am married into a Punjabi family, and while I have embraced the traditions and celebrations of my marital home, I have never forgotten my Mahalaya.

For the first two years after marriage, I continued to wake up at four in the morning to listen to the recital on the radio. Then my husband, perhaps understanding how much this tradition meant to me, bought me CDs so that I could listen to it whenever I wished.

And I did.

Year after year, I would sit by myself in the quiet of the early morning, listening to the familiar chants and songs, allowing the music to wrap itself around me like an old, comforting shawl.

Today, technology has made things easier. Friends forward the recordings, and YouTube is always there to bring the magic alive. All I need to do is press play.

And just like that, I am transported back in time.

The songs that once sounded like old melodies to a little girl now feel wonderfully fresh. The shlokas that once seemed mysterious have become familiar companions. And the voice of Birendra Krishna Bhadra continues to cast its timeless spell.

Isn't it strange how something can remain unchanged for decades and yet feel entirely new each time we return to it?

Perhaps it is not the music that changes. Perhaps it is we who change, gathering experiences, losing people, making memories, and discovering meanings that had once escaped us.

This Mahalaya was no different.

As I listened to the familiar recital once again, I found myself remembering Maa, Bapi, my aunts and uncles, my cousins, and all those who had been a part of those beautiful mornings. Some are no longer with us, their voices silenced by time, while others are still here, carrying their own memories of those days.

For a few moments, the distance between then and now seemed to disappear.

I could almost see us all gathered together, wrapped in quilts against the cold, holding steaming cups of tea, listening intently as the voice of Birendra Krishna Bhadra filled the room. I could almost hear the familiar sounds of the household waking up, the gentle conversations, the rustling of blankets, and the quiet excitement of a family sharing something precious.

And somewhere in the midst of it all was the little girl who did not understand why everyone was so excited about waking up at four in the morning.

If only I could tell her how much she would miss those mornings someday.

If only I could tell her that the people she took for granted would one day become the faces she would search for in her memories. That the voices she heard every day would become treasures. That the warmth of those shared moments would one day mean far more than the rituals themselves.

But perhaps that is how life works.

We live through moments without realising that they are quietly becoming memories. We complain about the cold, the early mornings, the interruptions to our sleep, and the routines we believe will continue forever. And then, one day, we find ourselves longing for precisely those things.

Time moves on, homes change, families grow, and people leave us. But some memories refuse to grow old. They remain tucked away in the heart, waiting for a familiar song, a forgotten fragrance, or a special day to bring them back to life.

For me, Mahalaya is one such day.

It is no longer merely about the arrival of Maa Durga or the beginning of the festive season. It is about roots, relationships, belonging, and the people who made my childhood what it was. It is about a culture that continues to live within me, irrespective of where life has taken me. It is about remembering those who are no longer around and feeling grateful for those who still are.

And, of course, it is about that warm cup of tea, cradled between my palms on a chilly morning, as the familiar strains of Mahishasura Mardini fill the air.

Every year, I listen. Every year, I remember. And every year, I discover something new in what has always been familiar.

Perhaps that is the true magic of tradition. It allows us to return to our past without having to leave our present behind. It reminds us of who we were, celebrates who we have become, and keeps us connected to the people and places that helped shape us.

So, as another Mahalaya passes, I carry my memories with me-with a heart full of gratitude, a hint of melancholy, and a smile that comes from knowing that some bonds are never really broken.

They live in the songs we remember, the rituals we continue, the stories we tell, and the love that time cannot take away.

Some days become memories. Some memories become a part of who we are. And some mornings, no matter how many years go by, never really leave us.

Mahalaya is one such morning for me.

And as I take another sip of my tea, I smile, close my eyes, and let the magic begin all over again. 🌺🙏

©®Madhumita

A Rakhi I Will Carry With Me

 

This Rakhi was special. Different, unexpected, and perhaps one of the most emotional Rakhis I have ever experienced.

For years now, Rakhi has carried a certain quiet ache within me. After Bhai, I never really had a brother to tie a rakhi around a wrist again. I continued sending one to my brother Sonu, as I always do, but somewhere inside me, the ritual had become intertwined with memories, memoriesof childhood, of Bhai, of a time that can never quite return.

So when this year, my friend, my brother, my confidante decided to make a plan with Rumpa-my karmic sister from another birth, I simply couldn't refuse.

And somehow, even the long drive did not feel long. The wrong turn the driver took did not irritate me the way it normally might. Perhaps when the heart knows it is travelling towards something special, even the little inconveniences along the way lose their importance.

And then came the welcome!

A house full of warmth, laughter and familiar affection and there was Obhro, with Mamma, Maa, QP-Anjali, Yatvik and Sanjay, waiting to receive us as though we had always belonged there. Obhro was waiting downstairs to receive us in the NCR heat. 

The Rakhi ritual brought back a flood of memories. Childhood came rushing in-the innocent excitement, the sacred little thread, the meaning attached to a brother's wrist. And somewhere in the midst of all those memories was Bhai.

Remembering him, I tied that protective thread on this Bhai's wrist.

I cannot quite put into words what I felt at that moment.

It was beautiful. It was overwhelming. It was almost as though life had gently placed a missing piece back into my hands--not to replace what I had lost, but to remind me that love sometimes returns to us in forms we never expected.

I felt Bhai's memory very deeply that day.

And then there was the love.

And So much of it !

We were welcomed, pampered, showered with affection and treated to the most delicious Bengali food, lovingly prepared by everyone. But what touched me most deeply was seeing Maa(Avra’s Mom) cooking despite her fragile, weakened health.

I don't think she knows what that moment meant to me.

Watching her put in that effort, simply because we had come, filled me with a profound sense of gratitude. Some gestures are so pure that words seem inadequate beside them.

I am struggling even now to find the right words for what I felt that day.

There was a kind of happiness that felt almost sacred-fresh, uncomplicated, childlike and pure. The kind of happiness that doesn't ask for anything, doesn't announce itself, but simply settles quietly inside your heart.

And somewhere along the way, I realised something else.

This family is my own now.

Not by blood, perhaps, but by something just as powerful-the invisible threads of affection, trust, shared memories, acceptance and love.

And of course, there were the gifts from my wonderfully affectionate sisters, QP and Rumpa, little tokens of love that I will treasure not for what they were, but for what they represented.

Not to forget dear Preeti who joined us later on . 

As I look back, I realise that this Rakhi gave me much more than a celebration.

It gave me a memory.

A memory I will hold close, perhaps for the rest of my life.

A memory so precious that I feel I could carry it with me even beyond this life, into whatever world awaits me there.

Thank you, God, for bringing such a wonderful human being into my life as a brother, and  for this family that has slowly, quietly, beautifully,  become my own.

And thank you for reminding me that sometimes, when we lose someone we love, life does not replace them-for love cannot be replaced.

Instead, it sends us new souls, new bonds and new hands to hold.

And sometimes, all we need to do is recognise the blessing.

This Rakhi, I did.

As I look back, I realise that this Rakhi gave me much more than a celebration.

It gave me a memory-a tender, precious one that I know I will carry close to my heart for a very long time, in fact, forever.

Perhaps some memories become a part of us so deeply that they stay with us wherever life takes us, through all its seasons and journeys. And maybe, someday, when this journey of life is complete, these are the moments our hearts carry gently along.

For now, I am simply grateful.

Thank you, God, for bringing such a wonderful human being into my life, as a brother. Thank you, for this beautiful family, that has, somewhere along the way, become my own.

And thank you for reminding me that love has a way of finding us again-in unexpected people, in new relationships, in shared rituals, and in moments that quietly heal something within us.

This Rakhi, I felt that love very deeply.

And my heart is still full. ❤️

©®Madhumita

 #rakhi 

Who Am I?

Who am I?

Am I my mother's daughter,

woven from her silent sacrifices,

or my father's reflection,

bearing the echoes of dreams he never spoke aloud?

Am I my son's mother,

the shelter where his tomorrows take root,

or merely my husband's shadow,

walking beside another's light,

mistaken for my own?

Am I a homemaker,

measuring love in warm meals,

folded clothes,

and sleepless nights?

Or a professional,

wearing competence like polished armour,

while my heart wanders barefoot through forgotten gardens?

Or perhaps,

I fit nowhere at all,

too tender for a world

that applauds certainty

and mistrusts tears.

Yet I know this much...

I am a poem

still being written

by invisible hands.

Lyrics rise within me

like birds greeting dawn;

feelings stain my soul

the way rain awakens thirsty earth,

and every heartbeat

finds its own quiet rhythm in verse.

Love,

that glorious, unreasonable alchemist

has been my blessing

and my undoing.

It has turned every wound into a window,

every farewell into another beginning,

every tear into a pearl

the world may never see.

Call me foolish

for believing in impossible embraces,

for waiting when reason had long departed,

for loving with both hands open,

asking nothing

except the privilege of feeling.

I accept the name.

For I would rather spend one lifetime

burning with love

than a hundred years

untouched by its fire.

And if, one day,

I must leave this fleeting world,

let it be said

that I lived as I wrote,

and wrote as I loved:

fearlessly,

hopelessly,

beautifully;

a soul forever unfinished,

yet forever in love.

©®Madhumita

The Eternal Bougainvillea

Not all fair blossoms seek the praise of spring,

Nor every flower is born to fade unseen;

There blooms a vine whose frail, translucent wings

Outlive the dust where countless feet have been.

The bougainvillea, clothed in light and dream,

Ascends forgotten walls like Hope made fair,

Till ruined stones become a sacred theme,

And silence gathers incense in the air.

Its delicate leaves, though softer than a sigh,

Hold in their fragile palms eternity.

The royal purple and imperial flame

Flow down old terraces like evening's prayer;

Each blossom seems to breathe a secret name

The wistful wind has cherished everywhere.

They are the echoes of a deathless kiss,

Still lingering where parted lovers stood;

The crimson soul of longing fashioned this—

A bloom distilled from memory's deepest blood.

Beneath their shade I find your unseen hand,

As though our hearts obey one lost command.

Then orange burns with twilight's gentle fire,

While peach unfolds the blush of dawning skies;

No earthly flame could feed such pure desire,

For Heaven itself seems mirrored in their dyes.

Each branch becomes a bridge no years divide,

Where soul to soul, like rivers, softly run;

There every dream walks quietly beside

The golden footsteps of the setting sun.

The world dissolves; only our spirits stay,

Like birds that cannot learn the art of day.

Then comes the ivory bloom, with hints of gold,

Serene as prayers that greet the waking morn;

Its tranquil light enfolds the faint and old,

Where hope, long thought forgotten, is reborn.

It does not cry for wonder or acclaim,

But heals the heart with silence sweet and deep;

It writes your image in Love's deathless flame,

Where neither time nor grief has leave to creep.

There every petal is a sacred vow,

And every breath becomes forever now.

O wondrous vine, whose beauty none can bind,

Thou art no child of seasons soon withdrawn;

Thou bloomest first within the faithful mind,

Thou crownest earth with heaven every dawn.

Thou teachest that true love can never cease,

Though years should scatter all we once have known;

For Beauty is the everlasting peace

The Infinite has planted in the soul alone.

And when my heart, like evening, longs for home,

I seek thy blossoms climbing toward the blue,

For in their radiant hush I hear Love's voice,

And every flower becomes a path to You.

©®Madhumita

My Mother: An Army Wife and a Teacher

She wears two uniforms with pride,

One seen, one worn deep down inside.

A life of service, strength, and grace,

A steady hand in every place.

As an army wife, she stands so tall,

Through every silence, every call.

She holds the fort when he's away,

With courage lighting up each day.

She moves with life’s uncertain tide,

Packing dreams she cannot hide.

In homes that bloom then fade once more,

She plants her hope on every shore.

As a teacher, calm and wise,

She shapes young minds before her eyes.

With every lesson, thought, and test,

She gives her all, she gives her best.

No chalk can trace the strength she shows,

No book can teach the love she sows.

Through crowded rooms or quiet nights,

She shines with patience, firm and bright.

She teaches more than just the page,

She lives her truth on every stage.

With quiet power, she lights the way,

A guiding star by night and day.

She is the pillar, strong and sure,

A sculptor of the nation’s core.

In every role, she gives her part,

A woman with a lion’s heart.

©®Madhumita

#lifeskillscounsellor #motivationalspeaker #poet #writer #alzheimersawareness

My Mother

 

She wore two uniforms with pride,

One the world could plainly see,

The other stitched within her soul,

Woven with quiet dignity.

An army wife, steadfast and strong,

She stood through every trial and call.

When duty took my father away,

She became the strength of us all.

She kept our home with hopeful hands,

Through lonely nights and changing skies.

She hid her fears behind a smile,

And greeted dawn with fearless eyes.

She packed our memories, dreams, and prayers,

Each time the bugle called once more.

She turned unfamiliar walls into homes,

And left her warmth on every shore.

A teacher, gentle, calm, and wise,

She shaped young minds with patient care.

Each lesson carried more than words—

She planted hope and purpose there.

No chalk could ever measure her worth,

No textbook held the life she gave.

She nurtured hearts before she taught,

And raised the timid to be brave.

She taught of honesty, kindness, and grace,

Of standing tall when life was hard.

She never preached the things she knew,

She lived each lesson from the heart.

Yet as a child, I failed to see

The quiet love behind her ways.

I mistook her strength for distance,

Her discipline for colder days.

I wondered why she seemed so firm,

Why duty often came before.

I did not know she carried burdens

No child could ever ask her for.

Now silence fills the space she left,

And memories knock upon my door.

I search for one more gentle smile,

One more embrace I can't restore.

Now I understand the sacrifices

Hidden in each sleepless night,

In every prayer she whispered softly,

In every battle she chose not to fight.

She had been shaping not just students,

But quietly shaping me as well.

The courage I wear, the strength I hold,

Are stories only time could tell.

Her voice still echoes in my choices,

Her values guide the path I tread.

Though time has taken her from my sight,

Her love lives on in all I've said.

If I have learned to rise again,

To meet the storms and never bend,

It is because she walked before me,

A mother, teacher, guide, and friend.

She was the pillar, firm and true,

A silent force through joy and pain.

A sculptor of tomorrow's world,

Whose legacy shall still remain.

To countless children she was a light,

To one brave soldier, constant grace.

To me she became life's greatest lesson—

A love no absence can erase.

Today I speak the words too late,

The ones my younger heart had missed:

You loved me more than I had known...

And now you're the one I forever miss.

Though heaven claimed your gentle soul,

Your strength still beats within my heart.

For mothers like you never truly leave,

They live in every child they helped become.

©®Madhumita

Moonlit Waiting

I love to watch the moon, pearly white, softly aglow,

Serene in her silence, with a gentle, timeless flow.

She knows the night's embrace will soon dissolve with dawn,

Yet wears a quiet smile until the darkness is gone.

Hope flickers in her heart like silver on the sea,

Love shines through every beam she scatters endlessly.

Perhaps that is why I find myself in her light,

A soul still waiting through another sleepless night.

With love long lost, yet never truly laid to rest,

I cradle patient dreams within my hopeful chest.

My eyes stay open wide, lest destiny pass through,

For every moonlit vigil is a silent prayer for you.

©®Madhumita